


What's a Girl To Do?

by BookofLife



Series: Meet Cute's [1]
Category: Arrow - Fandom, olicity - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Never Met, F/M, Gen, I'll update the tags with each chapter, season 6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-05 11:37:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15862854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookofLife/pseuds/BookofLife
Summary: She'd tried for years to do the right thing. Eventually the lines blur and then, when one finds oneself working as a double agent, in deep and past the point of moral endurance - as alone as a woman could get - what's a girl to do but continue? Painstakingly.But then he's there; right where he shouldn't be. On opposite sides of the moral line. Sort of.And maybe, just maybe... he can help find the 'Felicity Smoak' who'd gotten lost along the way.Maybe she can save him.





	1. Possibility

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter will be up on the 9th! The weekend after that, I'm occupied but the weekend after THAT...  
> The chapter's theme song is: Possibility by Lykke Li  
> Changed it to 5 chapters: just thought of the most perfect ending. It needs its own chapter.

“…This isn’t going to end well for you.”

Heart leaping once - eyes widening behind her partially framed glasses - her feet stopped without asking them to.

_That voice…_

Stood bewildered in the hallway, between door numbers 1, 2 and 3, Felicity Smoak was _sure_ she’d heard that voice before. _TMZ? CNN?_ Whoever the voice belonged to, it hit her with the force of a hammer throw. _I know that voice._

Then logic smacked her across the back of her head.

 _Right,_ she eye-rolled at herself, _because in his off hours my boss enjoys perusing the newspaper and watching the news with a pot of coffee and a cinnamon bun_. Nudging her glasses towards the bridge of her nose, she considered: _somehow, I can’t see the almighty_ Dragon _taking the time to read… well, anything. Or watch more than any 3 seconds of TV._ Heartless SOB.

It would imply him taking pleasure in something other than himself. Or his wanton girlfriend. _Gag me with a spoon._

Everyone and everything else were expendable to her boss. This included TV shows… and people. _Even me._

Richard Diaz; aka, The Dragon - the most pretentious alias _ever_ for a man whose main _raison d'etre_ for becoming an underworld kingpin was being bullied at school, _please; we’ve all been bullied_ \- wouldn’t be caught dead watching prime time television. _He’s missing out_. So was she: _being 2 seasons behind in Game of Thrones episodes_ has _to be some kind of crime. Though the catch-up_ , she supposed, _will be amazing_. Her calendar was marked: just a couple of weeks more.

There were other things too that she was missing, _taking a walk outside actually being one of them_ , including lunches with friends she’d now lost, computer operating systems she’d been unable to become intimately acquainted with, dates with good men that would never come to pass, holidays in remote countries and exotic locales that she could only stare at pictures of, because she had no fracking clue what they really looked like-

“ _Tell_ me!”

Slapping the palm of her hand over her own mouth - to keep in the yelp she’d been unable to avoid making - the sound of a fist hitting flesh made her flinch.

… _God_.

She was on intimate terms with that sound by now, though she really wished she wasn’t. _I hate this place_ ; she hated all aspects of her job, but this? This was the worst part. The knowing and being absolutely unable to do anything about it because, she had a cover. _And what am I not allowed to do?_ Blow her cover.

It grew harder and harder with each passing day, to care about that. _I’ve been here too long_. It would be done soon but, a girl could only take so much and those who stand by, doing nothing? They share a piece of whatever happens. She wasn’t exactly doing _nothing_ … but the urge to actively make a mark on this place, to have _Dragon’s_ world blow up in his face by her hand was an oh _so_ tempting carrot on a-

Another fleshy - meat bag, meet fist - sound, followed swiftly by a second, made her eyes squeeze shut and her stomach twist in wait for the typical sobs and moans to emerge. Or a further beating. A little _begging_. The whispers of _please_ and _why are you doing this_? The ever-increasing urge _she_ felt to walk into the room, pull out her Walther TPH - _yep, it’s almost exactly_ that _pistol; a pocket, semi-auto pistol, to be precise_ \- and shoot Dragon between the eyes, even though she knew she couldn’t.

A killer she was _not_.

The very idea made her feel sick, though it was one of the reasons why she’d been assigned this job: her incapability to be coldblooded that way. She made the most convincing undercover agent because avarice, culpability and deception were the kind of talents she was far from versed in.

One eye peeked open when what she’d expected to hear - another hit or a cry for mercy - didn’t come. Instead-

“That tickled.”

The voice made her other eye open… and blink in surprise.

Low, the voice was low. Unafraid, which… wasn’t normal. Richard Diaz didn’t make it a habit of making enemies who didn’t fear him. And, well, it didn’t sound like the words had been spoken through a speaker or filter of any kind so, _hostage_. Live and in person, in the room just down the hall.

A very cool customer.

She still couldn’t place the voice. She could only revel in the snarl that she recognised all too well from Richard - Ricky - Diaz. “I _will_ break you.”

 _It must be killing him_. That whoever was receiving such hospitality didn’t seem to fear him.

And as quiet and threatening as the words were, she barely heard them. But she hoped - prayed - that he’d be wrong about that. That he wouldn’t break the will of whoever was with him in the old security room, wouldn’t tear at the voice that she’d just realised had made her calm down. Had made her feel-

Safe.

Mouth opening slightly, _whoa_ , it threw her. _That isn’t normal either_ : when was the last time she felt remotely safe? Didn’t make it any less true. Considering she stood in a building that housed a notorious criminal and all his underlings, Felicity suddenly felt supremely well-adjusted. In her element. Something she’d never really felt in the last 6 months.

All because of a voice.

 _Who are you, Mr Calm and Collected?_ Mr ‘I don’t give a crap about getting punched in the face - _I’m guessing_ \- because you, sir Dragon are a pathetic worm’. It was how that person had spoken. _Mr A-OK_. Mr Impenetrable. Mr ‘Do your worst’.

But what if he was just pretending?

The thought made her still. And feel a _minor_ freak out start to build somewhere behind her diaphragm, which - again - was ludicrous. She didn’t know this person. I _hate my brain_ ; her worrywart brain. But what if there _was_ someone in there, _right this moment_ , faking nonchalance? Pretending to be fearless and brave?

And-

No, she couldn’t do this.

It wasn’t as if this was the first guy to be dragged in there - that particular room, stained with all sorts of human residue and haunted by the shouts and pleas for help that would never come because Richard Diaz had a score to settle with the world at large for refusing to acknowledge him, _big baby_ \- kicking and screaming or cursing or bleeding… some of them she’d actually seen. The rest, heard. And each time, she’d had to force herself to _not_ do something about it. Even though she knew doing anything was a death sentence for her, she still _wanted_.

_Can’t something be simple, just for once?_

Still, it was pretty silly right? For her to think she could do something about it all by herself. Physically she was _so_ not imposing. _And_ _I cry at movies_. At anything really. ‘Anything’ included pain and the threat of violence; primarily, torture. _Tears, snot and pain are not a pretty look on me_. She was sure she’d shatter under the pressure to be brave, never mind attempting the same kind of self-assurance the voice was currently giving off in waves. At the opposite end of that spectrum, she found it impossible to be cold. Heartless. Stone.

She’d managed, barely, to affect a level of indifference over the months here.

Not that Diaz cared. Felicity was there for one thing and one thing only. Luckily for her, it was a thing her so-called boss was lost without since he couldn’t rely on his infamy just yet. _You’re not that big a deal buddy_. But his methods were a problem. He’d infiltrated - his men - the SCPD and certain low-level government circles. If left unchecked, he could make some serious changes without anyone knowing until it was too late. _It’s why I’m here_. To gather this intel; to locate exactly where and how Diaz had garnered followers and gained authority and control, as she slowly discovered how far his arm reached. _Far enough to make this operation necessary_.

So, the ‘thing’ Diaz needed her for - the very thing that allowed him to extort, manipulate and coerce his way up the criminal hierarchy - was the very same something that allowed her to creep into unsuspecting data sites, behind mainframes and do a little digging… a little pilfering… some outright hacking. Garnering to her bosom - _come to me, my pretties_ \- a list: names of his confederates, evidence of all illicit wrong doings carried out by Diaz’s henchmen and corrupt officers of the law, video footage of his presence behind the scenes, everything that would enable the FBI to bring him in for an official crucifixion.

And then - just maybe - Felicity could go back to a life of relative normalcy. _I could use some boring_ _right about now_. Even though _boring_ made her fingers itch to take a stroll into the kind of territory that got her here in the first place.

In Argus’s employ.

Cutting a long story short, Felicity had been caught trying - _succeeding, thank you very much_ \- to digitally destabilise a system that was hurting people. In exchange for a prison sentence, _yikes_ , she’d agreed to work for this very secret section of the government. Even if they were, at times, questionable.

Super nefarious.

But her contract was up for negotiation after this mission. And, though she loved making a difference, working for Amanda Waller was giving her hives. And sleepless nights. And a problem with her facial muscles: aside from the ticks, she’d sometimes forget how to smile. How to see the good instead of the bad. If her job was so ‘good’, then why was she having problems feeling good about it?

She wasn’t an idiot: she knew that there were times when decent people had to do despicable things for the good of the majority. But there were lines; lines Waller and her agents crossed on the daily. It was hurting something in Felicity’s soul.

 _I need to get out_. Before she was pulled in forever. The problem was that she had no idea what she’d do with her life afterwards. Could she even get a normal job and live a normal life at this point, in a city she’d done so much _in the_ _grey stuff_ to protect? She didn’t think so; but the alternative meant that she might have to. Either way, she was losing something.

“I’ll get what I want, one way of another.”

And that was her cue to hide; _go, go, go, go, go!_

Searching the area - it was so not the time to forget which door led to where - she slipped into the office she’d been heading towards anyway before that beguiling voice could stop her, just in time for the click of the door being opened down the hall to sound off the walls like the countdown of a clock.

Heavy footsteps thudded towards her, _oh he’s angry_. “I have a meeting with Anatoly,” Diaz’s benefactor and ally… _sort of_ , “I’ll be back tonight.” Richard _Diaz’s_ voice grated over her skin as he snarled, “ _Watch him_.”

“Yes sir.”

Both hands covering her mouth in case Richard had gained super hearing, she waited until those footsteps thundered past where she hid and slumped in relief when the door on the opposite side of the corridor beeped open.

Security lock.

There were a few things Diaz didn’t know about her, but not for lack of trying. It was just that, there wasn’t a soul alive that would be able to uncover how she’d forged a history that wasn’t her own. To Diaz, Felicity was an ethically lose, business graduate looking to make a few hundred thousand dollars and didn’t care how she managed it as long as she had what she needed to open her own business.

 _“Black souls come in all sorts of pretty packages.”_ He’d stared at her as he’d said it; that slight smile on his face telling her he saw right through her smile and nerves towards the cold heart beneath.

He was clueless. But again, not for lack of trying.

She’d been petrified during her ‘interview’ with him. Still was. But it added to her façade. If you must lie but if you’re bad at it, then be honest about the lie. Incorporate truth. Add a little ‘self’.

Make them believe you.

Richard Diaz had… but only after he’d blindfolded her, kidnapped her from her home, tied her to a chair and placed electrodes on her head, did he conduct his ‘interview’.

He hadn’t known she’d been planted in that apartment - in Star City itself - by Argus.

Her cover was solid: she’d spent weeks on it and so far, her results had made Waller very happy. She wanted Dragon eradicated. Eliminated. _Eviscerated?_ _No, exterminated_. Better. But she wanted Slade Wilson’s son, who Diaz was also in cahoots with, more. Wanted the names of the corrupt officials in the government. Wanted the Russian mafia group who were reaching beyond their territory.

Wanted the codes he’d acquired to certain terrifying military weaponry nullified and overwritten first. That took a little extra. You see, there are several dozen sets of code, all kept apart and a secret from each other. Which ones did he have?

Well, all this Richard Diaz kept on internal servers deep inside the complex. All _this_ , her digital _spies_ had mostly routed out.

There was just one thing left. Well, two things.

The codes.

And L7.

 _If you wanted a clear picture into the person Diaz is, then look no further than this compound_. L7 was the lethal narcotic he’d tried to have distributed at large throughout the city. _Emphasis on tried_. He’d been subverted… thankfully.

By The Arrow.

The City’s star vigilante. There were others; none of whom she’d had the pleasure of running into. But this guy was a legend. He’d shown up over six years ago. A few years ago, he’d disappeared, returning after a 6-month absence. One ambitious journalist had renamed him, **Arrow**.

It was better than _killer_.

He… _well, let’s just say his tactics went from bad to darker than hell._ Grisly was a word, a good one. _Eek_. It was shocking to wake up in the morning to pictures in the paper of severed limbs that were, thankfully, distorted.

But his results were unquestionable. _Incredible really_. Crime in a city that needed a vigilante was a sure sign that the judicial system didn’t work. Luckily, they had themselves a highly lethal guardian angel to take care of things.

While the police had been scratching their heads - and other places - the Arrow had _somehow_ managed to not only discover the location of Diaz’s production warehouse, but also _destroy_ the product in question.

 _I may - emphasis on the_ may _part - have sent out into the ether_ (onto a data site she knew was his because she’d spent a year tracking the Arrow and his works and his possible on goings until he could find the safest way to tell him, here! Look! Crime!) _the location of Diaz’s drug forge and all the evidence he’d need to screw the Dragon over._

That was before Diaz’s backup in the form of well-paid business men, cops and a few government officials stepped in to bail him out. Which was when _Waller_ took control and decided enough is enough.

It had taken 7 distribution attempts for Diaz to discover his ‘perfection’. Ergo L7. L = level. A drug that made addiction an unquestionable endgame. However, the results were so mind-blowing, buyers chose to look past this less than acceptable condition.

It made the taker inhumanely healthy. Inhumanely _superb_. A little stronger, faster… more aggressive. Hasty. Reckless even, more likely to leap before forethought, especially after prolonged usage. More likely to miss things or get itchy trigger fingers. Eventually it would culminate in dependence, until the user placed the drug first before all else which was typical for addicts. It was beyond dangerous, but its results were interesting and held potential in certain areas of the government after one morally challenged geneticist proposed a possible super-soldier programme.

Waller’s interest in it made her insides twist.

A small army - a dozen would do - open to influence, malleable and totally at the whim of morally reprehensible government officials. 

And it was her job to deliver this valuable intelligence to the sociopaths that secretly run the world.

This. This was her job.

_Just a little longer…_

Till freedom.

And a life she didn’t have (and never truly would) or didn’t want but was preferable to this.

 

* * *

 

 

“I thought I heard someone scurrying around down here…”

Biting down that daily groan of misery laced with irritation, Felicity’s eyes shut tight. _Not now_.

“But, oh look,” Laurel Lance - aka Black Siren, aka a Metahuman who, _just in case this wasn’t weird enough_ , was from a parallel earth - part sneered, part derided as she ( _I assume_ ) sauntered towards her, “it’s just you. The little upstart.” There was _certain_ mirth in her voice that carried itself up Felicity’s spine. “You’re like a rodent, you know?” Disdain practically reeked through each word. “Hiding behind doors and cordoned off corridors. Sneaking around…”

 _Like you are right now?_ Still, it was a pleasure as always. And guess why she was a little upstart? Well, as _little_ as she knew she meant to the world at large, Felicity was also one of the best paid and most-trusted in Diaz’s inner circle, which was more than a little scary. Basically, her intelligence and skill were valued _more_ than a sonic scream.

He had dozens of soldiers. Not one strategic advisor or IT go-to guy.

Didn’t mean she wasn’t watched day in and day out... but his girlfriend still took offence for some inexplicable reason. _I can guess why, but what comes to mind makes me want to barf_. For so many reasons.

Still, it was wise to keep her own council when a sadistic murderess was closing in behind her. Pushing down her thoughts, she kept her eyes closed; as if the lack of one sense could heighten the others. As if she could _feel_ her approach. _Like an encroaching chill_. “Morning Laurel.”

“I didn’t give you permission to use my name.” It came out like a question and-

 _Permission?_ Was she serious? “No, that _privilege_ belongs to your victims.”

She winced; flinching at herself.

_Oh fuuuuck-_

But a soft laugh made her insides freeze. “You’re not wrong.”

And she was probably smiling. Gloating. If there was a contradiction to be had, Black Siren was it. She made people feel like insects to be squashed, took pleasure in their pain and yet, at times, displayed an uncanny sense of empathy. The kind of empathy that you question how she could ever smile as she kills.

 _Breathe_ , before she yacked. _And this time, not from fear_. “I’m just,” because it was _past_ time to leave this place and forget all about underworld groups seeking power and gaining tractions and a shallow exhale made her sound _so_ not the indifferent technical badass she half was, “doing some maintenance.”

There was a pause in this skewed quid pro quo.

“…You fixed security already.”

And suddenly, the dangerous metahuman was no more than an egotistical irritation.

Felicity’s eyes re-opened. “ _You_ realise that automated security needs a little touch up every now and then?” Squaring Diaz’s girlfriend one fast glance over her shoulder, she didn’t attempt to hide her incredulity at the dimness of this woman who’d boasted intellectual superiority - a genuine eidetic memory of her own - could sometimes demonstrate. _And a one track-mind_. “I’m paid to do exactly this, _because_ they’re complex systems that are vulnerable to all kinds of cyber-attack… like with what happened three weeks ago?” _Remember that?_ “Unless you’d _prefer_ we get infiltrated by malicious agents, intent on destroying every life connected to your _lover_?”

 _Including yours, Lady Banshee._ And she was. _A banshee, not a lady_. _Really_ not a lady. At all. By _any_ scope of the term.

And lover… _ew. Sounds creepy no matter how you say it. Or think it._

But Richard Diaz had taken an unsurprising shine to the woman who’d admitted on camera - _something I found after I let my fingers do the walking and the clicking and the typing_ \- that she enjoyed it best when her victims screamed before they died. _How not creepy_. Merciless killing. _It wasn’t self-defence, that’s for sure_.

Black Siren liked to play with her food a little.

She didn’t blame _herself_ for this., oh no. She blamed _men_. In general.

She’d been ordered by Cayden James - a lethal genius and cracker - to kill a few people. Two of those people had children at home. Before him, Prometheus - a sociopath or psychopath or something; _why fit a man into a category that can’t house him?_ \- had her ‘under his thumb’ apparently, _which I suppose explains the glee on her face after she blew someone’s brains out with her voice_. The vindictive righteousness in her eyes when she explained in detail how she liked being _oh_ so bad.

The woman clung to powerful men. _Bad_ men. Who gave her excuses to wreak havoc and take names. And then blamed them for that too.

_So, daddy issues then?_

Regardless, Black Siren was dangerous and slinked around to her own tune: currently, she had the power to behave in any way she chose. This included following her boyfriend’s IT extraordinaire down every corridor and into every room when she wasn’t treating said beau to a free show. Or screaming at people.

Or making appearances in the media, circulating her unearned status as Laurel lance; lawyer and all-around good guy.

The Laurel Lance of this earth - _and trust me, when you discover parallel universes exist, your reaction to doppelgängers is just another day at work_ \- had worked as an attorney and Black Siren seemed to take delight in wearing that particular mask. _A vicarious pleasure?_

Voyeurism at its most innocent, at least for a Siren.

Making life as difficult as possible for the dead and buried Laurel Lance’s remaining family.

“Every chance you get, you look down your nose at me.” Said Siren stated and, _say what? Cause, no I don’t._ Felicity went out of her way to avoid this woman. “You might be his favourite tool,” leaning in, and it hadn’t hit Felicity how close she was until the woman’s hand was placed on the wall in front of her face where she stood before the computer terminal, Siren purred, “but I’m-”

“His favourite toy?” And _so_ innocent was Felicity’s expression - voice quiet and low and perfectly without any kind of need to do emotional damage - because the closer the woman got to her, the more she saw of that smug expression, the more Felicity’s hackles rose. “Or am I wrong and it’s true love?”

 _Okay,_ that _tone? That’s what you call derisive._ As if either Siren or Dragon knew what love even was; they screwed people over for profit or just because they could. They _enjoyed_ it. _I dare anybody to tell me otherwise_ ; she had proof. Live content. Their egos were astounding, and they saw kindness as weakness. They pounced on weakness, their insecurities making them natural bullies, just like right now.

Siren felt threatened, _by me, which is all_ kinds _of weird_. Or maybe not so weird. _Maybe Siren has actual instincts after all_. She’d survived _this_ long when her doppelganger had all but walked to her death: maybe she sensed something she couldn’t put her finger on or have the brain cells to fathom.  _Was that catty?_ Or was she just done with the level of hypocrisy in the building?

But, put that way, Diaz and Lance were a match made in heaven. Still, perhaps it was best not to antagonise the woman in front of her.

Who was looking at her with extreme dislike. “You think you’re so smart.” The somewhat schoolyard insult felt far more intimidating than it should have done for the _lack_ of anything resembling adolescent intent to hurt her. ‘Screaming Laurel’ was just staring at her, unblinkingly. A frown on her face and it was probably the first time Felicity had seen her without that constant half smile. “I don’t know what it is you’re lying about. But you _are_ lying.” Lips draped in black lipstick made the woman’s hazel eyes look like pits when they curled without any kind of humour, clashing with her skin tone, “It’s a woman thing.”

“Look, I’m already uncomfortable that we share that much in common…”

A brief laugh from Laurel startled her. “Believe it or not, I _do_ admire your nerve.” Then she finally leaned away from her, her arm dropping from the wall. “I just think it’s useless. Courage won’t stop me from crushing your brain with my scream.”

That was a pleasant image. _One I remember_. “Just Richard Diaz.”

He would absolutely stop his _girl_ from turning her brain into mush, because he had an agenda that couldn’t pause yet. Not even for his lady love.

The look in Laurel’s eyes just then could have frozen the air between them. But Felicity was tired of this game.

 _Apparently,_ a person - a woman - in this world was only worth viewing or tolerating as an adversary if you could kick all kinds of _physical_ backside. _Didn’t these guys know that with just three minutes of time and an available terminal, I could destroy them?_

Clearly, not.

That and, Siren sometimes forgot that with one scream she could also kill her boyfriend. If she hated the power imbalance, then she could very swiftly put it right and fill the vacuum of power she could create with herself.

“You’re too defensive.” Black Siren surmised - _nope, just beyond over everything in this building_ \- but her gaze was still frost. “You’re hiding _something_.”

Bending closer to the terminal she was currently tap dancing across, Felicity peered into the tiny screen; done with this conversation. “Prove it.” She blinked; her head cocking to the side - still not looking at her - as if realising a universal truth. “Oh wait, you can’t.”

And then she went _back_ to work; feeling the danger behind her and ignoring it, keeping those pesky firewalls from crumbling to pieces at the smallest sign of pressure. She was literally the one person who could break them down now… which was the point.

Then she felt Black Siren’s hand touch the back of her neck and stilled, _really_ like a mouse this time. “But I like my prey feisty. It’ll make killing you so much more delicious.” For a moment, the pressure of that hand amplified to the point of genuine pain. “I _will_ find out what you’re hiding. No one gets the better of me and lives long to enjoy it.”

_Insecure, much?_

With that lasting remark, ‘alternate Laurel’ sauntered off in the opposite direction to which she’d come; a slow, self-assured walk out of the alcove she’d found Felicity in.

The moment she was out of sight, Felicity slipped a transmitter on the underside of said terminal.

_“No one gets the better of me and lives long to enjoy it.”_

“I’ve been getting the better of you for months.” Felicity muttered, closing the screen and slapping down the lid before _she_ strolled out of the room. _Whatever_. “Not long now before you realise that.”

Threats were getting old anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

“Miss Smoak?”

The armed guard - fully armed, locked, loaded and lethal - made her heart fly up into her throat where she stood over the coffee maker in the crappy kitchen she was allowed access to. “Yes?” She almost crumpled with relief when it didn’t come out as a yelp. She was getting good at this.

The guard, Joseph - who’d she’d like if she didn’t know he’d happily threatened and blackmailed a good cop and his family, in their own home with two of his buddies, just a few weeks before - nodded to the corridor she’d paused in just yesterday. “Boss needs you.”

Three little words she’d gladly go without hearing for the rest of her life because, damned if she hadn’t heard them about 1000 times since her arrival months before. Another reason why the Happy Banshee hated her. _Her principals are out of whack._

“Alright.” Sighing, _what does he need this time_ ; she followed Joseph to the double security doors leading to that very hallway. _An on-person, micro camera?_ She wondered as she input the code; _I gave him one the other week to catch the mayor off guard-_

The Mayor.

There was something there. A memory. A possibility.

Something… nice. _Huh_.

The door clicked open and she walked on through; her mind in other places _. Diaz came back so angry from that meeting_ , she remembered. The mayor hadn’t played ball. She’d been secretly pleased until Diaz had told her to find dirt on him.

On Oliver Queen.

She had a secret, one-sided, history with Mr Queen. _Kind of lame_.

She’d once worked for his family - something that felt like a different life now - until his company had declared bankruptcy and was sold off to various other businesses; courtesy of Isabel Rochev. _He disappeared after that,_ Oliver Queen and Felicity lost her job. After evidence had been revealed of Rochev’s duplicity - _with a little help from yours truly_ \- and criminal nature, he’d gone underground; possibly to avoid media attention. _I don’t blame him._ One year later, he popped back into the spotlight and immediately ran for mayor. He’d succeeded and hadn’t been dethroned; not in the last two years. The first competent mayor Starling had seen since before the Queen’s Gambit sank to the bottom of the ocean.

That was almost eight years ago.

 _I wonder how he manages_? Being himself.

Loath to trespass into his history _too_ much, she’d taken off a single layer before she made the connection that could get him killed. Or her killed. Oliver Queen was the Arrow.

Jaw drop. Mic drop. Pants drop.

After a while - especially with his Russian connection ( _nudge, nudge, wink wink_ ) and the ill-fated timing of his return - it became less of a surprise and more of a _so much about him makes sense now_ , kind of thing. Except it also left her wanting to know more but, _I’m in here_. And working for Argus. And without freedom of movement. Besides, _what would I even say to him? Thank you for all your hard work? Cool bow action! Do you know how great you look in green leather? Need a little help there, buddy?_

 _Yeah, no._ People like him didn’t mingle well with people like her: awkward Brainiac’s with glasses and an inability to keep her thoughts to herself when confronted by extreme hotness.

And he _was_ hot. _God yes,_ is _he so very hot_. He could star in all her dreams. Thinking about it, Mr Queen was probably the most attractive man she’d ever laid eyes on. He’d never laid eyes on her. _Even his voice is-_

His voice.

_“That tickles.”_

_Oh God, it’s_ his _. But it can’t be. But it is._ It was. She’d only heard it a couple of times, but it wasn’t the kind of voice you really forgot, not when it-

The door to the room she’d wanted to escape from opened and her thoughts went splat.

In the middle of the room was a chair with rope and chains attached. A man sat in the chair and she couldn’t see much of him because half in between his spread legs and half to his side - fingers prodding at something - stood Black Siren.

 _Starting at peek excellence already_. It could only get worse.

“Get in here.”

_Diaz._

Yep. Worse.

Swallowing down every ounce of her loose nerves, Felicity walked into the room; confident and collected. The cold-hearted business opportunist he thought she was. “What is it?” She asked as she rounded the bend-

Then she jumped as the door slammed close behind her.

“He’s uncooperative.” Swinging round to see him, Richard Diaz half-sat, half-leaned on the bench against the wall directly to the right of the door. Large in stature, about as tall as Siren, his arms were loose and hanging on his thighs and he was staring at the two people in the middle of the room. “I need you to loosen his lips a little.

 _I beg your pardon?_ “I’m sorry, what?”

In answer, Diaz’s dark eyes hit hers. She’d never seen life in them, not past anything… well, scary: they looked like black pits of misery to her. Then they trailed behind her and she looked with him to…

_Oh._

Oh.

There was a subpar diagnostic’s table and an old voltage box on top of it, attached to an equally crappy monitor.

“Fix it.”

Understanding sank into her. He wanted her to fix whichever malfunction he was referring to, in order to allow him to electrocute the man in the chair. And this wasn’t something she could say no to, not really. There was nothing remotely pressing in the here and now that would make Dragon reconsider. _How is this my life?_ She wanted to cry; wanted to turn around and walk right out of the room.

But.

Orders. Leverage. Blackmail. Choiceless. The future good outweighing the current bad.

“…Okay.”

She was in front of the rickety machine before she could see them clearly.

See _him_.

And something inside her - something deeply feminine and long-since touched - gave a little _ooooh_. Just as the rest of her looked on in horror.

On screen he was handsome. At a distance he was impressionably charismatic. Up close? As in 5 meters in front of her? _Sexy_. All man. So many men were hardly manly at all, but _he_ was; he-

He was tied up.

His face was bleeding and he was tied up, _oh no_ , but he still looked dangerous.

 _Fucking_ dangerous _,_ with a capitol F.

He sat, lithe-like; _relaxed_. Unbothered. Of where he was, of who was in the room with him; all of it. The clothes he wore weren’t exactly flattering but they didn’t need to be, not on him. Faded jeans clung to taught thighs and a frayed, long sleeved Henley emphasised an extremely muscular physique… it led towards the most beautiful pair of hands she’d ever seen. Somewhat dirty, the back of his hand was large, but his fingers were long and slender without looking strange. His knuckles were _worn_ , like he’d been in a thousand fights and had skin regrown a thousand times as scars and callouses. A corded neck gave way to a jawline that was so viscerally _male_ , she felt her mouth dry. _Wow_. Scruff lined that jaw. _Real_ scruff; not the attempt at scruff some of the guys she’d dated had barely managed to pull off. Scruff that outlined the chin, bones and lower mouth of a face moulded into hardness, to muscles that were rigid with e-

Emotion.

_Emotion?_

Arrow or no, Oliver Queen was a captive man. Dangerous or not, he was… vulnerable.

And very much alone. _Like me._

She was on the side of the bad guys. And he, the good. Except, she had company. She had Argus and, for appearances sake, Diaz himself. He didn’t. No one had come for him. Didn’t the Arrow have friends? _I’m sure he does_. She’d done her studies; he had comrades. Allies. _Buddies?_

Family?

Her stomach twisted; a noose leading up and up and up to its end at the back of her throat.

Of all the people in all the world, Diaz wasn’t supposed to get him. _What do I do now?_ This was different: this was Oliver Queen, the mayor and the Arrow. Surely there was a precedent for dealing with things like this.

And looking at him as she was - _he’s super hard to avoid in a room this small_ \- one thing was for sure. This was one pissed off vigilante.

A vigilante who killed people and showed no qualms with violence in such a surgical manner that Diaz couldn’t hope to touch, _eek_.

He looked like he was dreaming of chewing down on Diaz’s throat. Something merciless had the panes of his face and made what might have been gentler slopes, harder. A warning. A _do not trespass_.

There was no fear there, but he looked _hard_.

His hands, somewhat twisted across his stomach in their sub-standard manacles, were still.

His eyes - sharp and glinting darkly under the dim light - took in nothing, but Felicity had a feeling they caught absolutely everything.

Even past Siren who was half bent over him.

Felicity couldn’t help but stare at him. _He looks tired_. She didn’t know him, or how he could look at any time, _but he looks tired._ Were vigilantes supposed to look like that? Like one good hug could finish him off, _if he didn’t try to snap my neck first_.

Not that she should be entertaining the notion of giving a notorious criminal… a cuddle. _I really have been here too long._

And she had a feeling he could escape those chains. Chains. Was Richard ‘the Dragon’ Diaz _worried_ or something? He should be. He had one of the most dangerous men in North America tied up in his home away from home and knowing him, he hadn’t thought twice about it.

She wasn’t sure if him being here, prisoner or otherwise, was something to be wary of or something to celebrate.

What would happen if he got loose? If he were to somehow loosen the restraints and… _Well, I’d be dead; for sure._ Men like him didn’t stop for people like her and she wouldn’t blame him for that.

Adding to the twist in her stomach, Miss Siren wasn’t getting the memo that every inch of Mr Queen was subliminally giving out. The evident _fuck off_. Freely encroaching on his personal territory, either she couldn’t feel it, or she didn’t care: she was too busy prodding the small cut above one of his eyes. Prodding, like she was curious or something and, _Stop it. Be a human and stop it, just this once._

“I wonder what it takes to be who you are.” Black Siren mumbled a possible attempt at mockery as she looked at the marks on him and _failed_ just a tad. Felicity had been at the receiving end of Siren’s quips - insults - and scorn before; this wasn’t any of that.

It was wistfulness. Want.

Lifting her finger to her mouth - a finger coated in a bit of _red_ \- Siren turned, shooting her boyfriend an impish look that was supposed to translate into _‘torture is fun’_ and _‘aren’t I cute about it’_ as she sucked the blood off the tip.

 _Um, no, no._ She felt like barfing. _Don’t do that._

But Queen was unruffled. _I sure as hell wouldn’t be._

Felicity pretty much wanted to punch her in the face. _Can’t they just be human beings and not dicks?_ Her hands had clenched; fingers curling into fists, becoming the kind of tools that could end those conceited looks, that smirk, and-

 _Breathe_.

She closed her eyes, counting to three before reopening them. If they noticed - Diaz, Laurel - anything about her that wasn’t par for the course, she wouldn’t last until the end of her assignment, _whenever that is._

But they _didn’t_ notice. “Predator.” Diaz whispered at his girl; his eyes smoky as he gave Laurel that slight, sharp edged smile made _just_ for her and _ugh; gag me with a spoon_. “Having fun pretty bird?”

_Um, Siren’s aren’t birds?_

Siren looked back - _down -_ at the Mayor of Starling. “Lots.”

The word was uttered oddly low and quiet.

Eyes flickering back up to catch the smile leave Laurel’s face as Richard Diaz scooped up his mobile to make a call - because to him, his girlfriend was just feeling lusty, since pain was her aphrodisiac - Felicity watched Black Siren gradually lift her other hand and reach out audaciously to stroke Oliver Queen’s cheek-

He jerked his head back, _away_ from her reaching fingers and Felicity felt that too. Feeling tense with the atmosphere in the room, every breath the Arrow took made her just as nervous as it n=made her happy.

But his eyes were on Siren’s and they were… dead. Tight but dead.

Revulsion suffused every inch of him.

From the side view Felicity had, she could literally pinpoint the _second_ the Doppelganger’s hope - whatever that hope was with Oliver Queen - die in her eyes and it wasn’t a pretty sight. See her face thin - _not a good look on a long face_ \- and her jaw flex. Watch her step back from Mr Queen; lips pursed, gaze on the wall above his head hands fisting.

Watch her push down the desire in her. The frustration. The fear. The regret.

But overall? Her rage.

Black Siren was _hurt_.

If there was one thing that woman knew how to do, it was holding onto self-righteous anger. Selfishness. Vengeance. Her sadism and insensitivity. _A raging bitch machine, honestly_. There were times when Felicity wondered if the woman _could_ be happy in the truest sense of the word. And for a woman who’d decided men were the root of all evil, she’d managed to surround herself with them. Here she was, in a room with her current boyfriend and her doppelganger’s ex-everything.

 _About that_ ; the way she’d been looking at Mr Queen was far from hateful. Closer to yearning and forlorn. _Her hypocrisy’s becoming a daily feature._

But Mr Queen’s face was stone; scarily detached. Unmoved as he watched Laurel step back and away from him. But once she was out of touching distance, his head inclined just slightly to the floor. One very long blink followed another. Nothing about hm softened.

He just breathed deeply.

He was preparing.

It was so much more painful than anything _she_ could have prepared for just then. She didn’t want to do this to anyone, never mind this man.

Even if it felt as if, at any moment, he could stand from the chair and leap into action; damn his arm ties. _He’s not the Arrow for nothing_. But he gave off an air of near-other-worldly power and strength; something she’d never reach herself, but it was almost like he was-

 _Is he waiting for something?_ Was he sitting there waiting for a cue? For the right time? There was no anxiety there and nothing soft in his face. In fact, he looked supremely unimpressed.

Undefeated-

 _No_. He was accepting where he was but damned if he wouldn’t make every second difficult.

Distrusting, disgusted, and clearly finding the attention of an attractive and dangerous woman unwanted too-

Because it surprised her, Felicity remembered.

Oliver Queen and the Laurel Lance of this earth, this reality, had been a _thing_ some years ago. You couldn’t walk past a newspaper stand without seeing pictures of him and the beautiful brunette. And the woman he’d once been with was now dead and her lookalike had been waltzing around his city, causing chaos in her name for months.

_How tacky._

Clearly, in whatever universe Siren was from, Oliver Queen and Laurel Lance were _also_ a thing, though it didn’t seem to matter to _him_ that she was his ex-girlfriend’s perfect physical copy. He found her repellent.

 _That had been all over the news too: the big EX_. All because of an illegitimate son.

Apparently, he hadn’t known. It was an ambitious reporter who’d dug her way into his life, discovering a several years old trail left behind by Moira Queen and bringing it ruthlessly to life, damning Oliver Queen and uprooting a boy and his mother for a percentage.

However, even though he hadn’t had a clue, discovering for herself that he’d slept around with more than her sister before he’d disappeared - _if it’s online I can find it_ \- Miss Lance had pulled away from any thoughts of a possible engagement between them, which had the papers running rife with gossip for weeks prior to the bad news.

Then Queen had disappeared for a while, rising again to become Mayor the following year.

Just months after that, Laurel Lance had been murdered. And maybe it still held bad memories for him. Maybe he and she had gotten over it and moved on before tragedy struck. Maybe not.

Whatever the reason behind his expression, Felicity had a job to do: something she was reminded about with a jolt once Diaz got off his phone. “Anatoly’s coming.”

Anatoly. _On a first name basis with the head of the largest syndicate in the Russian Mafia, are we? I think not._ It was a mutually beneficial partnership that Diaz liked to extol. Currently, it worked better for Anatoly to remain in it. But once Anatoly no longer needed him, such an alliance would crumble into dust; as was its nature. _Diaz would know that if he thought with his head instead of his… ego_. With a mind for money, drugs and men who’ve been in the business of keeping long standing underworld organisations, covert for decades; something Diaz didn’t exactly have.

The Dragon was ruled by vanity, spite and a need for validation. _No wonder Siren sleeps with him_. Two of a kind. But up until a few years ago, he’d only been a lackey with a grudge and a black belt.

 _She_ knew how Anatoly would respond once the pieces fell into place, because she’d heard a whispered conversation carried to her from one of the transmitters she’d kept throughout the complex; of him and one of Diaz’s armed guards: an insurgent. A double agent _paid_ by Anatoly to spy on progress and to make sure that he was getting the better end of the deal. So far so good.

Footholds into the city were cheaper with the help of _friends_ after all.

_But why is he coming here?_

“Smoke…” she flinched, blowing out a shallow breath as her fingers worked over dials, “gets,” and pulled at loose cables that needed to be attached to the monitor, all the while doing her best to not consider, “in your,” how Diaz would occasionally whisper that one line from a song she used to love, “eyes,” whenever he was in the room where she was working.

As if he was _crooning_ at her.

With each word he’d taken a large, slow step towards her as he watched with an odd pride as she worked without sign of confusion. With each word, Siren gradually turned to look at her; her eyes, glittering gems of vindictiveness.

_Right because, I dream of Diaz singing to me._

It was a wonder that she wasn’t shaking: the ramifications of being in the room with the Arrow, the Dragon and Black Siren - and one of the heads of the Solntsevskaya incoming - finally hit her in full; it felt like heartburn with a side order of panic.

Gaze flitting upwards, she peaked at the man in the chair who was ignoring them all: eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly, muscles tight and _ready_.

Her breath caught when one thought hit her hard: _I have to get him out of here._

It was so swift her heart gave one large pound against her rib cage and it _hurt_. The rebellious thought was as welcome as it was unwelcome. _Don’t make this personal Felicity_. 

Since when was _she_ heroic?

She couldn’t get him out without blowing her cover and her cover was hanging by a thread made of her will alone.

 _Well_ , she thought, blowing her fringe up off her face as she worked and taking in how indolent Queen appeared waiting to be tortured _; looking like that, it’s like he doesn’t need anyone._

But of course, he did. Of _course,_ he needed someone. Even if it was just a friend. Everyone needed a ‘someone’. Even the Arrow, who’d spent years building up a street cred made of fear, was alone here.

It made her wonder, beyond what she’d considered earlier, if he was _always_ alone. Did he live alone too? It seemed a waste if he did… not that she could talk.

But loneliness could rack up the empathy miles.

Clearing her throat, more than aware of both Diaz and Siren’s eyes on her, her fingers danced over buttons and-

_Beep-beep-beep._

“It lives.” Diaz breathed as the machine tooted an affirmative. _Great_. “Attach the electrodes. Head. Chest. Fingers and wrists.” As she processed _that_ request, he placed a well-meaning hand on the back of her neck - the same place Siren had that morning - and Felicity felt herself still again. Like prey. “Good work.” His fingers gripped her, but it wasn’t hard like Siren’s; it was sickeningly demonstrative, and he pulled away before he could feel the Goosebumps rise on her skin in disgust, looking at-

“Loor?”

Loor?

_Oh. Ew. Laurel. Right._

Said woman, turned abruptly, meeting his stare with an almost sultry on of her own as she moved across the room towards him and didn’t _that_ just send the right amount of _chills_ down Felicity’s spine. Laurel was smiling again; _never a good sign_. It helped cover the bunched cords of her throat and the venom in her expression for the split second she’d looked at Felicity before she’d moved. _Goodie_. “I need you to…”

Whatever Diaz was saying to her, it mattered little to Felicity. She was too busy gathering her courage. All the courage in the world wouldn’t help her now. Even sitting down, the Arrow was super intimidating but that wasn’t he reason she was having trouble.

 _I’m not sure I can do this_. She’d been cold and detached. She’d been efficient. But she wasn’t sure she could place the electrodes to Oliver Queen’s chest or skull or wherever they were needed and let Dragon have his fun without even a glance backwards.

Stood there, feet from him, just _looking_ at him as whispered words and noises continued behind her, Felicity couldn’t seem to move closer. Feet rooted, chest tight.

_I… I can’t._

The vigilante, the Mayor, the heir to the Queen dynasty, the bogeyman to so many… he looked his age just then. It hit her so strongly because she remembered thinking once before - when he’d appeared on the news - that he was one of those men who you just couldn’t quite decide the age of but that the older he became, the _better_ he looked. A man who could kill and who also had killer looks and charm. Deadly.

But here, he looked every inch his 33 years, _plus_ a year or two.

It was a good look on him. Age suited him: it didn’t make him seem frailer; he was like a Viking. The older he became, the more capable he looked. _But_ _I know that look_. Something that made sympathy, empathy and sadness well up high enough to choke her.

Stress.

Either his current situation was lying heavily on him - that Diaz had tried to pluck strings in the DA’s and Mayoral office with his undercover agents to get him fired, to axe laws and abuse others, to coerce good people and destroy lives - or he’d simply suffered. A lot. For a long time.

Worn.

And she was about to add to it.

_But I have no choice, I-_

Didn’t she? How many others had said _it’s not my fault_? In any other situation, her choice would be no choice to make. She’d try to save him.

In a room with the enemy, any move she made to help Oliver Queen would be met with violence and death, so… _no_. _I don’t have a choice_. She just wished she did and she wouldn’t have cared if Oliver Queen’s reaction ended her life; he wasn’t the only person in the room who’d been actively killing people for years but he _was_ a symbol of what she’d wanted to do for some time.

It was why this all needed to end soon. It was taking its toll, the nihilism. Her inability to change the course of any decision and make it better. To make the outcome a good one. The right one. And not one filled with death, pain, deceit or consequences. Even if she’d gathered evidence against Diaz, the long-term goal was starting to weigh _less_ than all the short-term moments of goodness she could supply.

She needed the codes… so she had to live like _this_?

She wanted to be clean.

Sat there, beautifully dishevelled, dirty, bloodied and dangerous, Oliver Queen was still the kind of clean she wanted to be. Where the choices she could make, are of her own choosing. The result a conclusion brought about by her and not by less than desirable orders.

Staring as she was, his brow was tapered - as if in deep concentration - and she couldn’t help but _like_ it, which was sick wasn’t it? Here he was; tied up, at the mercy of Richard Diaz and she was ogling. But the way it curved the line of his forehead and accentuated his soft eyebrows that didn’t shadow his eyes- really, how could _that_ be sexy to her? Because it was. Ludicrously so.

_Men shouldn’t be that attractive. It’s distracting. I’m distracted… from applying nodes that will allow Diaz to hurt him and clearly, I’ve been here far too long._

Head bent forwards - his body barely supported by a rickety, uncomfortable chair - his shoulders were curved inward a bit. Slouched. But his jaw, cheeks and throat were stiff. Tense. Corded.

And a tiny rivulet of blood seeping from the equally small cut above his eye, was drying.  The Arrow of Star City.

_I can’t do this._

She had to. He was just like one of the other faceless victims of Diaz. Just like one of the other names that would be superfluously recorded and investigated when all was said and done.

Just like all the others she’d been unable to help.

She wouldn’t let _him_ die. Somehow.

Yet, as she was considering all the futile ways she might be able to do that exactly, her knee accidentally graced his thigh; _when did I get so close to-_

His eyes opened, looking up at her so fluidly, she was sure he’d known she’d been getting closer.

An odd fear wrapped its fingers around her oesophagus; she was inches from a man she knew had maimed and killed people. But all she could think was; _please don’t hate me for this_.

But then she was taking in those super sensual eyebrows - _no, seriously; they are_ \- and dark lashes, into eyes that were unfairly, vividly blue. Well and truly, _deeply_ blue. The kind of blue a man like him wasn’t supposed to have. They were clear - awake - despite how tired he must be, having been brought in and played with the day before.

They were also the kind of dark she should be running away from: the dim light surrounding them making his irises appear more black than blue.

Her pulse jumped.

That was _not_ a kind look being directed at her. _Like I’m being skewered on a pair of antlers_.

His eyes were cold. Mesmerising, but cold. As if, inside, he was a machine.

But those eyes tore into her, because they told her that he was alone too. As in, loneliness- _alone_. There was nothing in him, no one _with_ him. No one could look at another human like that, like they were both animals, if he carried with him love.

Caught - in invisible crosshairs - she couldn’t help but still at the suddenness of it, of _him_ ; at the _everything_ right there for her see and it was almost too much. He was hard. Uncompromising. Razor sharp, like his gaze could cut. And motionless - like a gazelle before a cheetah - at the lack of anything remotely soft or close warmth in him, at the controlled rage in his glare; she realised he was waiting for her to make a move.

He was waiting for her to hurt him.

 _Oh boy._ Swallow. Gulp. _Help me_ -

He was just… staring at her face. Blatantly aggressive an uncaring but, also staring.

Increasingly _confused_.

Confusion looked… oddly attractive on him. She was sure he wasn’t trying to be. _I’m just warped._

A slight furrow at the bridge of his nose - the one above the glare - indicated she’d done that somehow. Had made a mystified edge seep into the darkness that kept her stood there. Had made his tapered brow, more a question that a threat. Harsh distrust leaked through every pore, but it didn’t change the fact that something about her being there bewildered him. The Arrow.

It was _probably_ the deep blue of her dress, the glasses and the two-inch heels. Most people were stopped at one or all of them. The fact the dress was feminine and pretty and not black or leather… or _black_ leather, well, she kind of didn’t fit here. Judging by clothes alone, she didn’t even belong in this room.

He clearly agreed.

Gaze dropping - his e expression the epitome of _what the fuck_ \- her stomach fell with it. Like his eyes were an invisible weight on her. They went to her feet, her expensive heels, and paused there; head unmoving. Expression still a glare.

Eventually, his eyes - still piercingly violent - began to roam...

 _“We need to set a precedent.”_ Diaz’s voice, no longer a whisper, sort of floated towards them from behind her; oblivious to the change in energy in Felicity’s corner of the room, _“We’re too new to be-”_

-Brushing over her exposed calves, Mr Queen’s eyes hit her knees - touching upon her thighs - before they could trace the edge of her fitted dress. Lingering there. Not ogling: evaluating. Searching for understanding.

_What is he…?_

It wasn’t as if she hid a universe of meaning beneath her clothes.

Then his eyes lifted back to her face so swiftly he caught her completely off guard. So subtly she almost missed it, his chest expanded with a breath but took a _little_ longer to fall this time and-

 _Oh_.

As if she’d caught _him_ off guard too.

Body sprawled in the chair, too big for it really, Oliver Queen tilted his head back. His face lost that tapered edge; his gaze travelling over the large and natural waves of her hair - even though she was bottle blonde, she _felt_ like a blonde - before landing back on her face.

More precisely, her _spectacles_. They matched her dress.

But it was the close light on those irises that reminded her why blue fire was the hottest flame.

Yes, she’d definitely surprised him; something about her was, for some reason, the last thing he’d expected to see just then.

_What is a place like me doing in a girl like this?_

It never got old: not the movie or the opinion. It was her escape. What was a fitted dress with a high IQ doing working with the likes of mafia insurrectionaries, drug barons and criminal scoundrels? With murderers? And it really _didn’t_ matter how she looked, going by the callous regard in the rest of his face. The caution on him that was like an acrid scent.

The way his hands were fisted.

The way his feet were pressed into the floor.

The tightness suffused in his shoulders.

He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 _And I’m that shoe_. As if her sense of style was the ultimate camouflage. And… it didn’t matter what he thought, did it? She _was_ the bad guy here.

Letting that drag her down - down, down, down - it helped somehow, to steel herself. Taking a less than steady breath, she pressed forwards those last few inches - they might as well have been miles and _he can take this; he’s the Arrow_ \- her knee brushing against his thigh. “Lean back.”

 _Dammit_. It came out too soft.

Something _moved_ in his expression.

She’d aimed for quiet but measured, if not a little _whatever; I don’t care_. Instead, it came out throaty, faint and so very sorry.

Just. Great.

It made him hold her stare… for _too_ long.

Then, expression still harsh - face still cold - he did _exactly_ what she told him to do. He leant back. Stunned, her hand followed his torso where it reclined back into the chair.

He was still justifiably untrusting and confused… but she had his full attention and she was pretty sure neither of them understood why just then.

_Breathe._

But he was watching her face as her quick hands made very fast work of all the electrodes because, honestly, she was petrified of touching him for too long. Even if her own eyes flit on and off to his. When she reached his wrists and fingers-

His fingers uncurled from their fists. He finally looked away; down to where they were touching. He didn’t try to recoil or push her away: his dark eyes just watched her hands.

_Why is he making this easier for me?_

She didn’t look at him, couldn’t, as the tips of her nimble fingers graced over his knuckles-

They twitched. His fingers twitched as she touched them. _Each_ time she touched them.

She continued as if they hadn’t.

Until - the tension in the air slowly building, making a flush begin to grow on her chest - as her lower lip giving her teeth something to play with, _thank god for smudge-proof lipstick_ , she built up the courage to touch his _chest_. Without permission. Because she had to. Because neither of them mattered in this moment except, they were the only ones that _should_.

 _I hate this_. She hated Diaz. Hated Waller-

“I’m sorry.” Barely a whisper, a breath. Nothing above the back and forth going on between Siren and Diaz behind her as she attached the second electrode down and just under the rim of his shirt.

It had just slipped out. _Sorry_. Like it could do anything.

As if it wasn’t mortifying in its ineptness.

It appalled the spy in her who’d managed to stay on target for the last 6 months, speaking without meaning to. Letting her weakness slip out in front of _Oliver Queen_ , of all people…

His collarbone looked edible.

And _bruised_ on one side; she had the odd urge to smooth her fingers over it, as if she could magically take it away… except someone had kicked him while he was down.

Lips pressed together, she still couldn’t look him in the eye. She was with people who would kick a man lying down.

As she placed two nodes on either side of his head to monitor his EEG levels, her gaze slipped-

He was staring at her.

Fingers hovering over the drying mess above his brow, she froze. She’d managed for so long to affect a venire of detachment. Yet stood before Mr Queen in her dress, her glasses and her composure; she felt naked.

He could see her. She didn’t know why it hit her so hard just then but all the loneliness, all the failed attempts at justifying the orders she’d obeyed and the ‘good’ she thought she’d been doing, all of it; hit her right between the eyes.

Her fingers shook. Her breathing was shaky. Her composure thin.

She wanted to hold the so-called serial killer of Star City. And be held back.

 _There’s a word for this kind of crazy._ She was having trouble thinking what it was right now. _Maybe I’m just tired._

Maybe she wanted to let the danger in this time.

“Is it done?”

She jolted: eyes flying up. _Shit_.

Nodding, she sent Diaz an _affirmative_ over her shoulder and stepped clear. _Away_ from the beguiling man in the chair. “Done.” Away from his scent; from the slight sweat, leather, and minted soap smell that made her want to randomly and uncharacteristically curl up in his lap, nuzzle against him and breathe deep.

But enough was enough of the creepiness of _that_ \- _I’m just shaken or needy… or shaken and needy and missing my life when it all made sense, when virtuousness was worth a damn_ \- because she was now walking towards the machine and Richard was stood before Mr Queen who just… looked back at him.

It wasn’t defiance, more a; _do you know how impotent you are_? As if he’d been here, done _this_ before; evidenced by his next softly spoken words that belied the derision behind them. “You done with your pow wow, Ricky?” Like, _can we start already?_

She almost choked on air,

Then the _almighty_ Dragon punched him hard enough to fell a man sideways.

Diaphragm yanking in, rib cage contracting - _no_ \- Felicity adjusted her glasses; copacetic. _Be cool_.

Siren was watching her.

Dialling up the _box_ \- it had one function; it might as well have been just a box - in her peripheral, his body half-bent over the side of his chair, Oliver Queen spat a glob of blood and saliva on the floor. Straightening, chair creaking; his expression didn’t change. “Still tickles.”

Like, _that’s cute_.

There was the faintest smile on his face; like he thought this was whole thing was pathetic. She was staring in awe, when Diaz pointed towards her.

“Punch it!”

Of course, she had no choice because Siren was directly behind her. Waiting for that misstep. _I hate this_.

As electricity coursed, as the good mayor of Starling braced against the arms of his chair: his teeth clenched together, eyes closed…

Felicity’s fingers continued turning the dial upwards.

And she kind of wanted to die.

_I hate this._

 

* * *

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, it all went downhill. _More so than it already was, I mean_.

“Turn it up.” Diaz barked at her; dark eyes flashing her way once and once would have been enough for most women. “Now!” She flinched, but it was because she had to _force_ herself to obey. “Do it!”

And she turned up the dial, wishing she could pick up the box in her hands and throw at his head.

As it was, everything she was seeing was going to haunt her dreams for life.

“When you’ve had enough,” Diaz shouted over Oliver Queen’s **scream** \- _screaming_ _because of me_ , because the dial was now at 72% capacity and _boy_ was it scary to watch someone go through this, to hear that beautiful voice cry out - but he wasn’t happy, “I’ll turn it up _just_ enough to make you forget your own name!” Bent over his victim, the expression on his face became a more disturbing, ugly version of his usual self; devoid of all compassion. “Let’s see how well Starling copes with a vegetable for a mayor. _Or_ a vigilante protector.” He spat; straightening so fast Felicity’s heart jumped into her throat as she shut the conduction down. “Better yet… let’s see how your son will fair without a functioning _father_.”

Stomach contracting, she swallowed; watching Oliver gasp and pant and hiss through his teeth, watching him uncurl in his seat as he re-opened pain filled eyes and peered up at Diaz. She took a shaky breath of her own, shifting on the spot… jaw locked; lips shut.

_“Better yet… let’s see how your son will fair without a functioning father.”_

Fear. There was fear there. And, nostrils flaring, Diaz was feeding on it.

“You think I haven’t found him.” Richard whispered; his smile demented and cruel. “That I don’t know _exactly_ where he is?”

A multitude of visceral intent, rage and terror made Oliver Queen’s hard expression wobble unsteadily. “You’re bluffing.” His voice was hoarse.

“Am I?”

Luckily, Siren wasn’t watching her anymore. She wasn’t standing behind her with her arms folded. Her eyes were on the two men and the way she seemed had given Felicity great pause.

She looked… uncomfortable.

It wasn’t difficult to believe that only fifteen minutes had gone by since they’d started, but at the start? Appearances are deceptive, but Siren hadn’t seemed concerned. Not by Oliver Queen’s pain _or_ her boyfriend’s vindictiveness.

She’d looked _down_ occasionally, with Felicity throwing her some a major amount of side-eye, if unseen because if she wasn’t watching _her_ and if she wasn’t leaning against a wall with folded arms, then she was smiling with Diaz.

That lasted until Queen started screaming.

She didn’t do anything about it, she just… started pacing. Mostly her lips pursed, and she’d sneered at everything. But at the mention of Oliver Queen’s son? _Now_ she looked uncomfortable. _Too little too late_. But it was intriguing. Not _surprising_ given the way she’d been pawing at Mr Queen and Felicity wasn’t feeling particularly giving in the sympathy department: once again Laurel was feeling conflicted but wasn’t doing anything about it. What a shock.

Hopefully a nugget of shame lay somewhere in the deep dark wastes of the woman’s conscience.

“Charge it up.” Breathing like he’d sprinted 5 laps around the building, Diaz stepped away from Oliver once more. But he was looking at her. “Don’t stop until I tell you.”

Ever the efficient worker, Felicity tilted her head; coolly asking him, “I thought you wanted the intelligence?”

“It won’t matter anyway, if he’s out of the picture.” Clearly, the Arrow had been all too adept at enraging the _Dragon_. “Now turn it up.”

Giving him an _if you say so_ quirk of her head, Felicity turned the dial _down_ … to 12%, because she knew that if the monitor scrolled down to 12% and was swiftly turned up to 79%, it would short circuit. She just needed not to get caught.

And as she finished moving the dial anti-clockwise, her eyes flickered up and over the rim of her glasses, catching Oliver’s because he was already looking at her side on; his eyes barely slits.

Waiting for the inevitable punch of pain.

Unable to glance away - like he was holding her there, which was impossible and embarrassing and so deeply penetrating she couldn’t focus on the world around her - Felicity twisted the dial clockwise.

His eyes shut tight, body tightening, fingers clenching into fists-

A spark erupted from the console - she hopped backwards, _eep!_ \- setting off a series of short-circuit bursts that spread to the sockets and down any power lines in room; systematically blowing out the dim lights until it cut the power completely, rendering the room to darkness.

Finally, _finally_ … it was over.

“Piece of shit!” In the dark, it was easy to know that it was Diaz who kicked the voltage box off the table in front of her; literally roaring his anger up to the ceiling as he did, pacing past her and breathing like a walrus in heat.

She was relieved enough that he hadn’t noticed what she’d done, that she didn’t start at any of it. She just counted her breaths; leaning back into the wall behind her.

_“Black Canary, Wild Dog- the one they’re calling Spartan. Who are they? Where are they?”_

Up and up the voltage had gone, until Queen was thrashing in the chair; enduring questions she knew without knowing him at all, that he’d _never_ answer.

He’d given Diaz nothing. Hadn’t shown a single sign or moment of weakness save when his son was mentioned: the whole time, he’d just _looked_ at him.

Circling, _“I know you’re good at covering your tracks.”_ Diaz had made his way over to her, _“I asked this one to find out everything she could about you and if_ she _couldn’t find anything, then you must be good.”_ And after feeling like she’d throw up - eyes on the voltage box and nowhere else - Diaz had passed her and for a split second she’d allowed herself to peek upwards-

-Just as Oliver Queen’s flickered back to Diaz.

He’d been looking at her too. Probably picturing ways to maim her.

 _“Who helped you?”_ Diaz had continued; _“how did you discover the warehouse? How did you know about L7?”_

Oh, but to be able to tell the man that his loss of a major source of income - a new and innovative overhaul in drug distribution throughout Star City and beyond - was due to the machinations and scheming of his favourite tool.

But that same look - even after his skin and clothes literally began to smoke, _oh god_ \- the same indolent way the Arrow seemed to be mocking Diaz with his every breath, pushed all the right buttons and Diaz, being the susceptible type when his ego was put on the stand, threw an almighty wobbler.

With every non-answer, Siren became more agitated. And yet, she still watched Felicity; as if daring her _not_ to react. Like she was testing how far her own darkness went. But Siren didn’t know true darkness; she thought killing and enjoying it was dark and… it wasn’t really. There was a level beyond that, a place where people _live_ off of it; where they eat fear and revel, where empathy grows silent. You could kill and learn to enjoy it. _But did you_ want _to in the first place?_ Did people’s honest misery make something inside you genuinely happy?

But Siren couldn’t seem to make her mind up.

 _One day… one day that woman will make sense_. If wishes were horses.

“Where’s the reserves?!” The Dragon bellowed.

Sighing, _who knew dragons were such drama queens_ , Felicity replied into the darkness. “They’re designed to boot up 45 seconds after initial power outage, so any moment…”

A hum in the foundations of the building was their only warning before artificial lighting flickered into existence, casting the room in a faint green mist-

Oliver Queen was staring at her.

There was nothing hard in his face this time, nothing fierce. His eyes were wide open - haggard - and not tapered in distrust. Lips parted, shallow breaths leaving him; incredulity made all the weariness, all the lonesomeness inside him, evident.

It called to her, to everyone, to be _kind_ ; though he knew the chances were impossibly low. But something else whispered to her.

An, _are you real?_

He knew what she’d done.

Heart and head aching, Felicity looked away; picking up her tablet just as the door opened. Joshua peered in. “Boss?”

_Go. Just go; every just get-_

“Take him.” Diaz had been standing to the side, pulling in deep breaths and rolling his shoulders but his search for calm hadn’t seemed to help him. “Get him back to his cell.” He stormed out of the room. “I want those records Loor!” He called back.

 _Records? As in, deeds?_ And for the first time in the long months since Laurel Lance had started living at the compound, there was no _you’ll get them_. No cocky affirmation of superiority.

No, she was watching Joshua hoist Queen off the chair to pull him out of the room where four more guards waiting - _I’m guessing that’s not overkill_ \- and it wasn’t until the backs of both men had vanished down the hall that the girlfriend of the underworld kingpin showed any sign of feeling.

Of regret.

“Is there something you wanted?” Siren abruptly asked her, though it wasn’t really a question.

Stepping around her, heels a quiet tap-tap on the floor, Felicity answered as calmly as one would about the weather. “World peace. Chocolate. Sex with an honest guy,” Siren snorted, “but I’d settle for being anywhere but in a room with you right now you _little_ liar…” she breathed as she moved because she really was such a-

“Excuse me?”

It was dangerous, that tone of voice but - agitated, ashamed and beyond angry at having to take part, once again, in evil acts - Felicity decided she didn’t care. “You have feelings for Oliver Queen.” She spoke quietly because even the walls had ears. “As much _fun_ as you’ve been having these past months, I think you’re starting to lose your nerve.” Stopping at the door, she looked back at Siren and wasn’t surprised by the venom in her eyes, but _was_ surprised by the lack of interruption. “If Diaz had seen your face just now… let’s just say I don’t like to think of what he might have done.”

“As if you care about me.”

“I _don’t_.” The immediate response startled Siren. “I just don’t relish blood splatter on my dress so early in the morning. You might want to conceal what you’re feeling a little better; you’ve grown lax.” Eyeing her, Felicity allowed herself a frown because _damn_ if she wasn’t confused by this woman. “Tell me again why you’re so afraid of him?”

_When with one scream you could kill him?_

After exactly seven seconds of silence, Siren responded. “I don’t have to answer to-”

“Yeah,” turning away, Felicity walked down the hall with purpose, “that’s what I thought. Bored now, _Loor_.”

She had a phone call to make.

 

* * *

 

 

Her code name was _White Hat_. It had held a certain truth to it.

Now it felt like a cruel joke.

“White hat, code 327, requesting command: Sierra-Tango, Echo-India.”

 _“This is command, over. Code confirmed. Long-time no hear_ White Hat _.”_

“Likewise.”

_“ST-EI is currently engaged. Is there a problem?”_

“Why, _how_ , has Oliver Queen been taken by Richard Diaz?”

 _“…Care to repeat that,_ White Hat _?”_

“The Mayor of Starling, the Queen Heir, the Arrow- yes, I know you know who he is-”

 _“_ White Hat _-”_

“-Was handed over to Richard Diaz by Anatoly Knyazev, not 2 days ago; something I learned for your information, when I was pumping him for secrets!”

_“Pumping- what?!”_

“I mean my hands where on dials that were sending electrical pain into his body!”

_“Okay, okay; where are you? Are you secure?”_

“What do you take me for? Of _course_ , I’m secure.”

_“Right. Tell me what happened.”_

“I caused a shortage. It’s pretty easy to do on the fly. Diaz blamed the console and not me. Then he went to meet Anatoly and Mr Queen was taken to the cells in the lower north-corner of the building.”

_“Why was he making you do that?”_

“He wanted information from Queen: the whereabouts of his _friends_. Allies. His base of operations.”

_“And did he give away that information?!”_

“Um… no. He said, ‘I have no friends’. Then he didn’t say anything else. But, you know; thanks for thinking it would be difficult for me to watch and for worrying whether he’d be alright after the fact…”

_“…”_

“Hello?”

_“…”_

“…John?”

_“No real names in field agent.”_

“Then don’t go quiet on me! And I’m not an agent.”

_“I’ll forget you just said that. There was chatter about a package being delivered two days ago and that whatever it was, meant a city-wide takeover.”_

“That’s the Arrow… When were you going to tell me this?”

_“When we had more information.”_

“I am your _best_ go-to person; you _know_ that.”

 _“I’m just following orders,_ White Hat _.”_

“Since when did red tape stop you before?”

_“Things are different now.”_

“ _You’re_ different now. Do you have any idea what it’s like being here? Being trapped with _Richard Diaz_?”

_“I-”_

“No, you don’t. I wanted out weeks ago, but queen _bee_ wanted the codes and the serum and Slade and-”

_“We’re formulating a plan of action. The go-to could be any day now.”_

“I was told that after I passed the location of Slade Wilson’s son onto Lyla.”

_“Codenames, White Hat!”_

“Fine! SF-EI!”

_“Look, it’s almost done.”_

“And in the meantime, I just- what? Watch Diaz take a good man and make him suffer?”

_“Oliver Queen can handle a little pain.”_

“…That’s cold John.”

_“…”_

“Look I don’t know what you know about Mr Queen, I don’t know him as a person; but whatever beef you may have with him, whatever you think you know, there is a good man locked up in this building and he’s alone. I’m going to go out on the limb and say he’s been alone for a _long_ time. I happen to know a thing or two about being alone. It sucks. There’s never anyone there to tell you ‘it’s going to be alright’. ‘You’re going to make it through this’. ‘You deserve more than this’. Screw being an agent, screw being _this_ person. I won’t do that again. I won’t help Diaz torture him. And I won’t stand by either.”

_“And what do you propose we do, Felicity? Storm the complex?”_

“Why not? I sent over the blueprints and the files months ago. I give you updates every week about shift changes and personnel additions. I could destroy them from the inside out-”

_“Illegally. We have to do this by the book-”_

“And _I’m_ the one who manufactured the god damn door locks _and_ implemented the updates to the security system!”

_“What about the launch codes for the missiles?”_

“Give me 12 hours. I’ll have them.”

_“I can sell that.”_

“Great, but will that be the end of it?”

_“I need to confer with command. Be online in 24 hours.”_

“Alright. John?”

_“Felicity?”_

“Diaz told Oliver he knows where his son is.”

_“…We haven’t been able to find him.”_

“You should have seen his face…”

_“Diaz’s?”_

“The Arrow’s. It was the _one_ time he showed fear. Then I short-circuited the board and he got a reprieve.”

 _“Stay focused_ White Hat _.”_

“Does he know his son? Does he visit him?”

_“…”_

“I heard that sigh.”

_“Look, Oliver Queen is a mystery. Few people really know him. The majority who do, wish they didn’t.”_

“That can’t be true.”

_“Why can’t it?”_

“It just… can’t be.”

_“…Did you talk to him?”_

“No. He just looked at me. He watches everyone, John; it’s meticulous.”

_“That’s a nice way of putting paranoid.”_

“He’s in hostile territory; what do you expect?”

_“Something a little more than watchful.”_

“He looked angry too. Really angry. But it was… controlled. Kind of remarkable really. I’m pretty sure he could have broken the restraints at any time, but he didn’t. That and I think he might have gotten himself caught on purpose, but I think it’s backfired on him. Or something.”

_“That would be just like him. Let’s just say that he thought he could take out the enemy alone, but they’re more rooted than he thought they were and now he knows that if he makes too big a wave, other people involved will be exposed.”_

“He didn’t have a… an IT girl? Or guy?”

_“No, he didn’t. Not anyone like you, anyway.”_

“And if he had, maybe he wouldn’t have done this?”

_“I wouldn’t go that far. Oliver Queen has pretty much done whatever he thinks is best for years now. Damn the consequences.”_

“I think he’s showing great restraint. Maybe he knows he’s done the wrong thing. And he’s given nobody up.”

_“You sound admiring.”_

“And you sound like you don’t like him at all.”

_“That’s… not it.”_

“Do you know him, John?”

_“I thought I did.”_

“There’s a story there.”

_“One I can’t tell you about.”_

“I miss so much being here.”

_“We’ll catch up when all this is over… we ended up going against protocol again. We lose our code names and start gossiping. You know we shouldn’t.”_

“Yet we always do. You love it.”

_“Hah. Go be superspy.”_

Easier said than done.

But maybe… maybe she should start doing things her way now.


	2. Dangerous Liaisons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys: I tried updating this last Sunday but my time was stolen and I've been working flat out all week until now. My sincerest apologies. Also, I need to write a oneshot of Felicity going to prison instead of Oliver and how it would destroy him. NEED TO. I'm weird, i know I am.  
> And I call Ricardo, Richard... because.

It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d say anything to anyone and it _should_ have. Her first thought should have been, _‘what if he says something to Diaz?’_ About her manipulating the voltage, or anything to promote suspicion and shake the foundations of the enemy.

But there’d been zilch from Oliver Queen.

“Stop making me like you.” She muttered as she watched the man in question on camera, not at all like a creepy-creep…

Actually, she’d been wondering. Worrying. It had been 2 days since he’d been brought in: had anybody given him water? Or food? _A true test of character is how we treat our enemies_. Clearly, Diaz’s character was made of lint. _I knew that too._

She’d had to force herself not to think about that in the past, about the innocent people not getting what they needed but now it made her stomach twist because, _here I am with my latte and there he is_ : on her monitors, sat inside a cold cell, just… waiting.

Surreptitiously checking whether Diaz was in the compound or if he’d gone away with Anatoly, Felicity was planning, moving, and deciding before she knew it.

Still, she had to question the logic of popping into Oliver’s cell in order to satisfy her need to… rebel?

To be kind?

To… connect?

Was _that_ what this was?

Hand falling to her stomach, she realised; it had everything and nothing at all to do with the vigilante she’d helped torture earlier. Doing the right thing had been a rationale stolen from her after she’d forcefully entered into Argus’s, but before that? What had she really managed to accomplish by herself?

Meeting Oliver Queen had made her remember everything she’d tried to bury. A time when she used to reach out to people. A time when she wasn’t held down by rules or fear of their consequences, when she could just do _good_ …

He was – even after taking into account his nature, his many victims – by all rights, a man who _tried_. To do good. To take out of the city the rotten apples who’d exploit and terrorize the innocent.

She wasn’t ignoring that he’d killed people; she was weighing the good against the bad. Compared  to Diaz, whose weak excuse for being a monster had seemed to grant him the right to destroy instead of save. Compared to Siren who took genuine delight in each of her kills. Compared to Argus who overlooked the small horrors happening before their eyes, to reach the bigger ones. Compared to Prometheus, the psycho who’d terrified Star City the year before without reason…

Oliver Queen was almost a saint.

He _tried_.

So, she couldn’t let him die here.

But she had to get the codes too. And she had only hours to get them, _which is all my fault. Me and my big mouth; my mother always said it would get me into trouble_. If she got caught by Diaz, she’d never see daylight again. If she didn’t do it, she shuddered to think where Waller might place her next.

One last act of kindness to sooth her soul wasn’t asking _too_ much, right?

Even if it was small and utterly superfluous in the long run. There was literally nothing she could do that would make her feel like the men and women who’d been killed on Diaz’s orders, had been necessary casualties. Especially when all _she’d_ done, _could_ do, was stand there.

_This is for them._

One first and final act of defiance in the face of all the order taking, moral damage, political tape and hypocrisy. After this… it could go a multitude of ways; none of them seemed particularly tempting.

The cells were directly above the large internal server she had to get to - whilst Diaz was out visiting the stand-in mayor - and honestly, if it worked out the way she hoped, it should be _cake_ to get in and out without being noticed. But she’d never been in the cell block before. She’d never _needed_ to be. Nobody was ever kept there for long: Mr Queen was the exception.

_And it isn’t like he’d want me in there with him._

Glancing behind her - _hallway, empty save one out of place me; mission, success_ \- Felicity bypassed the security lock, _like I said - piece of cake_ , and slipped through the two-foot crack she managed before relocking the door behind her.

The cameras had experienced a _perfectly_ timed system freeze that no one would notice for at least 20 minutes. Guards patrolled but only once every hour.

Wiping a sweaty hand down the thigh of her dress because - even though she was a double agent, working for an agency designed to covertly and routinely eradicate enemies without the world knowing they were there - Oliver Queen was intimidating and- _huh, it’s shorter than I thought it was_ , the dress, _and why does that even matter now!_

Felicity cradled her tiny bundle and walked in the room. _I feel stupid._

But it didn’t matter how she felt; it was too late for that really.

The room was, for lack of a better word, dull. And dirty. And unoccupied, for the most part. There were two cells - literally like large cages, with wide open spaces that reminded her of pens in a zoo - and one was empty.

The other-

“Hi.” And _oh_ , could she not sound quite so ridiculous? _Hi, there! Did you order room service?_ “Mr Queen?” Closer to the bars now, she took him in.

It was a little eerie how he stood in the centre of the cell; his broad back in her view. The light was as dim and grey as it had been upstairs, but it seemed to curve around him. _He looks like a ghost_.

A very lethal, violent ghost.

When she’d said _hi_ , his shoulders had twitched. He’d known she was there, but her voice had been a shock. _Probably because I sound like a demented pigmy. He’s just been tortured, and I say hi?_

His head tilted to where she stood behind him.

 _Smooth_. Careful. “I’m… Felicity. Smoak?” Eyes squeezing shut - _I made it sound like a question_ \- the bridge of her nose wrinkled. “Like you care what my name is…” she muttered under her breath, trailing off before reopening her eyes-

To find him turned fully towards her; cold faced.

Unspeaking.

“Um,” heartrate kicking up a notch, she swallowed. “I…” _come on girl; get a grip, just say it!_ But he was daunting, and a victim here and there was no chance at _all,_ that he could see her as anything but the bad guy. Like Satan in a dress, come to tempt him. “I thought you might be hungry! _Thirsty_. _One_ of them!” _Shut. Up_. Her smile - _why am I even smiling_ \- wobbled but she still stepped up to the bars, presenting to him the tiny package; lifting it like Rafiki did with Simba. “I’ll just er, put these here-”

But he moved suddenly.

Sucking in a breath, “ _Wait_ ,” stomach concaving, because he was _right_ there already; “I wasn’t-” Fear made her words thicken, made her freeze in place: “I-”

He was _huge_.

Stopping before her - his chest barely brushing the bars - Oliver Queen lifted slow hands towards her. The trust in it made her catch her breath, made her blink up at his face and-

 _Oh_.

That wasn’t trust. It was a _dare_.

His eyes were fixed on hers; dark, dead-set and Intense. He held out both hands and waited; careful not to touch her as she passed the bundle. _Gormlessly_ because, you know, he looked like he was either about to punch her in the face in a _sneaky-sneak_ attack or-

Do… nothing?

Literally. He just stood there, looking at her; holding the bundle and did… nothing.

 _This is so incredibly awkward_. “I-It’s just water. And a- a sandwich.” Nodding to herself, a hand lifting; she nudged her falling glasses up her nose.

Like they were a shield.

“You brought me a sandwich.”

God it sounded dumb.

The way he said it too: _You brought me a sandwich_. The barely-there voice; the rough, quiet derision and something rippling through the hardness again, making his forehead crease. Finally, his eyes fell to the package; languidly blinking.

It was almost funny; she could tell she’d thrown him again because, this was kindness. And it was as if he didn’t understand what that meant. It was telling about the life of the man in front of her and had nothing to do with any harsh treatment he received here at the hands of Diaz.

Mostly, it was _so_ sad. “Beef. And tomatoes.” She clarified, _and lettuce and beets_ , her fingers interlocking. “I didn’t know if anybody was feeding you-”

“Why are you doing this?” he cut in, looking back up at her.

His eyes, his expression, was aggressive. Controlled, but aggressive.

And for a second, she had no idea what to say because the answer was so simple and honest, and she hadn’t been either of those things in years. “It’s the right thing to do.” And she spoke in a way that she maybe _shouldn’t_ have. Like, _don’t you know that?_ She was metaphorically sleeping with the enemy; what right did she have to say those words?

“The right thing.” He whispered and yep; that _wasn’t_ awe. Sharp eyes waited for the penny to drop.

She wavered, literally; her body swayed side to side, unsure of what to say. Or do. Or feel. “So, ah… I’m going to let you eat that.” So, she said nothing at all. _My work here is done_. “And-”

But his hand shot out through an opening between the bars, fast enough to cut her off, words and all; not quite wrapping itself around her throat, but it was a very near thing. “What. Is. This?” Coarse, his voice was a rumble that crawled over her and it shouldn’t have; not when his palm and fingertips were digging into her collarbone and neck. “What game are you playing?”

But he wasn’t throttling her. She’d understand if he did.

His… the energy in him, what made him ‘Oliver Queen’, was like a pressure on her skin. It was a powerful, painful thing. A lonely thing. She wished she hadn’t noticed but everything about him screamed it.

He could snap her neck with one hand. He’d done it before too; newspapers rife with his victims; the murderers and pimps and drug barons too dim to realise that baiting or attacking the Arrow was a bad idea.

And he didn’t look or sound afraid of her intentions; as if he’d accepted that he’d most likely die down here. But he had pride, he _hated_ being here and he didn’t _appreciate_ the possibility that he was being played. That, and she’d bewildered and befuddled the misfortunate guy.

 _You’re full of rage, aren’t you?_ She could see that too; like they were words written on his skin. Anger and _regret_. But for what? “No games.” Breathing deeply was impossible with his hand where it was, keeping her as close to the bars as possible and her own had come up; covering his forearm without pushing him away. The muscles she could feel were _ridiculous_. Both her hands couldn’t even fit around it. “Completely gameless.”

It was pretty menacing how quiet his voice could become with so much darkness in his expression. “I don’t believe you.”

That made her chest ache. The surety. The conviction in him that everything everywhere was _bad_ or doomed or evil because his belief in the return of the light had been long gone for some time.

What she’d wondered about Black Siren? _This_ was what she meant.

True darkness meant losing all hope in the light; whether a person reviled being steeped in pitch black intensions or _enjoyed_ the thrill and absolute lack of restraint and the comfort of the acceptance darkness could give them, the result was the same. A woman like Siren liked to jump in and out of the hole whenever it suited her; the tips of her toes coated in black tar, but that was just as shameful as blaming others for her own choices. Once you touch the darkness… you’re never free.

_I should know._

Oliver Queen had given up all hope of the light for himself. Seeing it being presented to him like this, made no sense.

“…It’s just food,” she whispered, and it was strange; she wasn’t afraid. He was freaking her out, sure. But she wasn’t afraid of him. She should be… but she wasn’t. _Why?_ That wasn’t normal. “I-” She couldn’t help the small but real smile return to her face because _god_ they were both so pathetic. He was the Arrow and the mayor of Star City, questioning being brought food by the ‘technically’ double agent IT woman who was working for a section of the government that didn’t ‘technically’ exist, one that made her miserable, and a mafia stooge who made her feel in need of all the showers and _this_ was their lives. The kind that made them look at the good things and see only the bad. That kind where they were both so alone in it. “I just didn’t want you to be hungry down here.”

To die down here.

Maybe she sounded whipped enough. Maybe her eyes told of sincerity… maybe it was because they were tearing up and this was taking a turn for a level of deplorable she hadn’t meant to touch. _Don’t cry in front of the nice man with his hand on your neck, Felicity._

Was it pity? Sympathy? Something seemed to _touch_ him. Their faces were a foot apart, so she saw it; both earlier and right here, he’d been viscerally focused. Scarily intense. Livid but controlled. Hard.

But his eyes - his beautifully expressive that were blacker than blue just then - flickered over her face. Searching.

He didn’t find what he was evidently looking for.

Another flicker; a half blink. It was almost imperceptible, as if he couldn’t trust himself with _feeling_ but couldn’t help that he did, that something started to alter in him. Losing the tapered look, the heavyset brow damning everything about her… uncertain at the realness in her face, his hand slowly shifted, lifting off from her collarbone. As if none of this felt truly real to him.

Her fingers inadvertently traced down to his wrist, to _skin_. To his pulse that was strong, and his hand that halted; to a set of eyes, of brows, of _lips_ that - for a single moment in time - showed a flare of surprise as her touch found then left him. As she swallowed and took deep breaths, the feel of his hand still a print on her. Said hand turned, so that his fingers didn’t catch in her hair; as if avoiding a thoughtless tug through the strands.

It was a startling glimpse of the man under the hood.

 _Keep it safe_ , that tiny light in him. Protect it- _I need to protect him_. Because it told her everything she needed to know, and she was so very screwed. _I can’t leave him here._ Not someone who’d care enough to avoid pulling her hair; this man who was supposed to just be bigger and meaner and far more brutal than her.

Yet right here, there was nothing unnecessary about him; nothing to indicate that the violence he threw at criminals and thugs would be directed at her, just because she was on the other side of the bars. He wouldn’t treat his enemy appallingly. He wouldn’t hurt her _just_ to hurt her.

Because he could finally see a woman who’d brought him food, just so that he wouldn’t starve.

It meant he could be smart; not everything was the malevolent design of another man or woman’s evil. It meant he could be as fair as she.

It also told her something else; maybe he’d trusted too strongly in the past and it was a bad habit that hadn’t died. Bad for _him_ , but also really fracking _good_. It meant he still hoped, _even if he can’t admit it to himself_.

Even if everything about him just then, screamed hopelessness.

And incomprehension.

“You rigged the machine.” He muttered, as if she wasn’t even there. But his eyes were on hers; eyes _open_. Receptive. Addressing the elephant in the room. “I thought maybe I was…” _Imagining it?_ “But you did, didn’t you?”

Taking another shaky breath, she didn’t say a word. Didn’t know what _to_ say.

But he seemed to have all the words, and something told her it was foreign for him to be the chatty side of any conversation. “Why?” Still beyond understanding her, he shook his head; brows creasing, highlighting the dried sweat and blood on his forehead from before, voice still on the side of menacing. “Why would you help me?”

Like, _why would anyone?_

Struggling, she _tried_ ; she really did. “I…” Nothing came. _Ugh, this isn’t going well._

So, she gave up and took a step back-

“You’re leaving?” His head _tilted_. There were no words available for how effective that move was on her, for why it made her pause in her retreat and stare. “You bring me this and you’re just… leaving.”

And for some insane reason, Felicity played coy. But without the coy.

“Why would I stay?” Her voice low and soft; near-daring him to make his own assumptions and _boy_ had it been a while since she’d been able to do this with anyone. Be a person rather than an employee. A woman and not an IT girl. “Some of us have work to do,” her hands moved behind her back, one holding her opposing elbow, “Mr Queen.”

“ _Oh_.” Quiet astonishment had him pressing _into_ the cell bars; his narrowing eyes shadowed. “I remember you.”

The _last_ thing she’d expected him to say. “Beg pardon?”

There was a pause and she knew this time it was because this - all of it - was starting to feel, to him, like the most random act of providence. “Felicity Smoak.”

_Felicity._

That wasn’t fair. A whiskey and sin voice - _his_ voice - separating the syllables like that, tasting them on his lips; _not fair_.

“Don’t call me Mr Queen.” He shifted, as if uncomfortable and something about that, given where they were, almost made her laugh like all hysterical people everywhere. “That was my father and… I am not him.”

 _Vehement denial noted_. He hadn’t been loud or forceful, but it was a clear message; the issues in the air could have choked him, but – _doesn’t everyone call him Mr Queen?_ “Right, but he drowned.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“A-and you didn’t, which was why you could be here right now…” she pulled in her lower lip, “in this cell, listening to me babble,” and bit _down_. “What a win for you.”

_Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…_

But he didn’t look haunted the way he had been. Wasn’t angry or guilty; he just looked thrown. A slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes speaking of scepticism, bemusement and something softer. “Who _are_ you?”

The way he whispered that…

“ _You_ just told _me_ my name.” frowning, confused and kind of relieved beyond compare; a muddled smile on her face made his eyes drop there, to her mouth.

His eyes glittered in the dark. “You don’t fit here.”

_You don’t fit here._

Was it the tiny smile?

The glasses that framed her face towards pretty appeal? Or the dress, the shoes, the styled hair? Was it the way her hands and fingers were fidgeting, or the way she bit on her lip? Did she sound the way she felt? Did her eyes tell the story she was law bound - terror bound - to keep secret? How could he tell?

How could he see that?

Better yet, where did she fit if not here; if not in Starling or in Vegas or at Argus? _Where_?

Genuinely sniffling back this _surge_ of emotion that made zero sense, Felicity gave into defiance. “Maybe this is exactly where I fit.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Maybe I’m lying to everyone.”

 _Shut up_. It was the most honest she’d been in too long. Telling him everything without revealing a thing, not really… until now.

He fell silent, just watching her; gaze falling to her feet as she took another step backwards.

She glanced to the door. “The guards will back soon.”

He nodded like, _of course_. “You have to go.” And it was strange for a man who’d suffered to look so unaffected by it.

“Yeah.” Looking at him one last time, Felicity sidestepped; turning as she did-

“He told you to find out about me…”

Blinking back to him, “what?” She found him almost blank in the face again; searching for answers, waiting for her to remember and, “Oh!” But then her nose crinkling uncertainly because they were only halfway through the day and already a lot had gone on and- “Huh?”

“You didn’t-” he paused to gage her, and instinct told her it was important somehow, “did you tell him about my son?”

Hammer. To. Her. Brain.

“You’re…”

“My son.” He repeated; unveiled affection coating the words though his expression wasn’t remotely affectionate. “Did you?”

She answered immediately - how could she not - and truthfully. “ _No_.”

A breath leaving hm, his eyes fluttered closed. Relieved. Instantly trusting her words, because he _had_ to.

 _God,_ how must that feel? To have the ones you love targeted. “I didn’t, _wouldn’t_ , tell him.” Voice as quiet as a whisper, she slowly shook her head. “Never.” How could she ever give a child to Diaz or to _anyone_ to use as blackmail? As a hostage? A threat? “Not _ever_.”

Eyes re-opening, he read her, worryingly, like a book. “You lied.”

The husky statement - the slow realisation there - made her briefly look away. “I didn’t find anything-”

“You lied.” It wasn’t even a threat; he was just putting it out there.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

He stared at her through the bars. “But, you did.”

She shifted on the spot. “Not much of one.” _Stop making it feel noble_. Not when she could have done so much more. It didn’t matter if she as between a rock and a harder place. 

“It was still a choice. You could have: you didn’t.” Looking her over, he saw something he hadn’t before and really, what was she giving off to let him in like this? “You’re not here by choice, are you?”

Startled, “Whoa,” _sucker punch_ , a nervous laugh - more choking than not - left her, “you don’t waste time, do you?”

No, he did _not_. “Are you a hostage?” A hand lifted off the bundle, wrapping around a bar. “He has something on you, doesn’t he?”

“I’m nobody’s hostage.” She stated, but she was _everybody’s_ hostage. _For now_.

But what else was he supposed to think?

Going by the shrewdness in his expression, a lot.

There was a moment between them, silence filling it. An entire conversation without saying a word. Screw who she was; _I want to know who_ he _is. What made you the way you are_ , and she knew she’d find his story as compelling, captivating and beautiful as he was. And sad. Very sad.

There was no real coldness in him anymore. Instead there was something in him she hadn’t expected to see, not from anyone in this place.

Disquiet.

It bothered him. The possibility of her being held hostage _bothered_ him.

It threw her, but she had to nullify that strange empathy; _no Stockholm happening here_ , she was the last person he should ever worry about. “I’m not in any danger. Not really.” Sort of. _Ish_.

He looked her up and down, like, _sure_. “Who _do_ you work for?”

Because it definitely wasn’t Diaz and _god_ ; how was he seeing all of this?

She didn’t say anything. Riveted. Scared. Alone.

And his voice was _so_ hushed, so effective in making her want to trust him; belying the reality of why she shouldn’t. “Is it the cartel?”

A surprised snort broke free from her. “ _Pass_.”

He arched a brow; voice still whiskey smooth. “Anatoly?”

“No warmer.”

“Amanda Waller?”

“Who?” It was so sublime - her tone and timing - she wanted to pat herself on the back. Technically, she worked for Lyla, but Waller was the reason she was here.

Everything about him was indifferent, save the scrutiny in his gaze; his free arm hung lazily through an opening in the bars just below shoulder height on him. “Are you an undercover officer?

“As in the _SCPD_?” She probably looked as scandalised as she sounded. “The bent police force, mostly on Diaz’s payroll?” _Is that a joke?_ “Um, no.”

“Fair enough. Though why that would bother you…” He implied before tilting his head. “CIA?”

 _Enough is enough_. “Look, we can stand here all day playing the guessing game but…”

“Wait.” In seconds, he changed from inquisitive to startlingly intense. “Could you-” He licked his lips; clearly fighting an internal war with himself. “You’re Diaz’s hacker?”

Where was he going with this? “I’m in IT first and foremost. But I can hack, yes.”

The not-quite-an-answer seemed to be enough for him. “ _Does_ he know where my son is?”

“I… I don’t know.” It changed perspectives markedly. “But he didn’t ask me specifically to find him.”

Which was definitely odd. He would have, _should_ have.

Not remotely reassured; Oliver looked away. If Diaz hadn’t asked her, considering he’d brought it up earlier meant one of two things; either he didn’t really care and was just using it to get a rise out of Oliver, which opposed his actions in the last 48 hours… or he knew exactly where his son was and was saving it for just the right moment.

Seconds after seeing the same thoughts pass-through Oliver’s face, she found herself talking again; saying things she shouldn’t be saying. Shouldn’t be _promising_.

“I can find out.” His eyes hit hers; _hit_. That’s how fast they moved. Like a physical force: _penetrating_. “I can look on his main server.” She gave him a little quirk of her head. “Dig a little. See what he knows.”

So very slowly, he pulled back; away from the bars. Her response had been too quick; his words provoking too much out of an enemy for him to trust it.

But his jaw flexed; dry lips thinning over clenched teeth. It was important. His son was important.

So, he dared. He _had_ to.

“ _If_ ,” grated out like that, she wondered if he hurt his throat, “he finds you-”

“I’m a dead woman.”

The sheer lack of understanding in him shone in his gaze. “Then, _why_?”

She opened her mouth to answer-

“ _Don’t_ tell me it’s the right thing to do.” Even gruff, his voice was on the right side of attractive. “You’re not here because of the ‘right thing’.” _Oh ouch_. “You work for Diaz and you work for whoever else wants you here. This means you’re wilfully involved with bad people doing bad things: you are not the ‘good guy’ in this.” _Double ouchie_. “Doing this, for me,” as if the notion were beyond belief, “goes against your orders and puts your position in jeopardy. You can’t be doing that just because-”

“It’s the right thing to do?” And it sounded so _enticing_ ; defying orders, rules. _I aim to misbehave_. The irony of it being that the goodness was in the mischief.

She waited for a comeback, but he looked momentarily wordless.

“Why not?” She asked, just wondering really what he’d say. “Why can’t I?” Maybe he could make sense of what she’d been struggling to. “I mean, you’re right.” And she smiled because he _was_ , “I’m a- a _bad_ guy, essentially. So, it’s my choice if I put my ass in danger, not yours.” She nodded at her own point like, _yes; ahem_. _Pay attention soldier_. “My life, my choice. Problem?”

Brows arched, he blinked at her.

Hands on her hips: she felt a little ridiculous, chastising the Arrow of Starling City. Wearing the tight blue dress, the high heels, the shoulder length wavy blonde hair… She didn’t even have her gun. A school teacher would have been more convincing. _All I need is the black tights: put my hair in a bun and repressed librarian could be the new look-_

“Okay.” It was so quiet he might as well have whispered it.

It was her turn to wait for the other penny to fall and she was a little lost when it didn’t; when all he did was wait for her to leave. “R-right.” And that’s what she did; she turned and walked to the door.

But then behind her, she heard the rustle of the bag she’d given him. _Good_. He was opening the-

“Thank you.”

She barely heard it, but it made her heels stutter across the floor regardless. Made her press a hand to her chest.

 _Thank you_.

She hadn’t done what she did for a thank you.

Hadn’t _obeyed_ every order from Argus for the perks or the gratitude. Hadn’t invoked their wrath after she’d brought down a corrupt company or after she’d gotten the state senator affiliated with said company, incarcerated for any small or large reward she could have received for a job well done.

She’d done it all, because it was the right thing to do.

But this was the first time, in so very long, that she felt truly _clean_.

“…You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You gave him the deeds?”

Deputy Mayor Quentin Lance - currently occupying the post for the man currently incarcerated in Diaz’s base of operations - lifted his head from his hands, looking ten different kinds of exhausted. “What the…?”

Walking straight into the office, “I told you,” she didn’t care for his bleary eyes or the mild scent of a very long day after hours spent nursing the hair of the dog - it was probably residing in one of his desk drawers, “I _warned_ you. I said very clearly; do not give Richard Diaz any more autonomy in this city than he already has and there you go: just handing over more accessibility!” _Well done!_

In her opinion, she hadn’t been nearly sarcastic enough. _I mean, how many months does it take?_

Squinting up at her, as if her blonde hair was the sun and _uh; too bright, make it stop_ , Lance growled at her. “Stop shouting.”

 _Please_. “That wasn’t a shout: it was an elevated _whisper_.” Because there were still people circulating the office, even at such late hours. “What the hell were you thinking?”

It took him a few moments of dumbly staring at her for him to form words. “Who are you?”

 _Uh_. That put a hole in her sails. “Right.” Sometimes she forgot that people needed a face to go with online monikers. “Ghost-Fox-Goddess. Ringing any bells?”

It took him yet another precious moment. “You’re that online terrorist…”

Terrorist? Was he serious? She’d been sending him encoded data for the better part of a year, hoping to help in some small way to avoid the disaster coming and _she_ was a terrorist to him? _Thank you very much for making me see how wasted my efforts were._ “There’s a plague in this city: underworld kingpins collaborating together to overthrow the law and any minor democracy it has left and _I’m_ the terrorist?” Why was she so surprised? This was Star City; stupidity could abound high. “Never mind.” Shaking her head, _it’s not like I matter in the long run and there’s too much at stake_ , “look, you’ve given Diaz another foothold. He’s already infiltrated the staff here and he’s moving to impeach Mayor Queen; it’s only a matter of time until he takes over.”

Finally becoming cognizant to the seriousness of the conversation, Mayor Lance’s hands dropped from his face and onto his lap. He looked so done in just then, so tired and hung over and-

 _“Don’t tell me it’s the right thing to do.” Even gruff, his voice was on the right side of attractive. “You’re not here because of the ‘right thing’. You work for Diaz,”_ oh ouch, _“and you work for whoever else wants you here. This means you’re wilfully involved with dangerous people doing dangerous things: you are not the good guy.”_

-And she really didn’t give a crap.

The deputy mayor had been drinking as he handed over metaphorical keys to the most wanted man in the city and the real mayor was stuck in a cell unable to stop it.

He’d known what he was doing.

So, when Quentin Lance said, “you don’t understand,” in such a way that made her think that maybe she really didn’t, the emotion she felt was more pity based. It wasn’t a _good_ feeling. It didn’t provoke sympathy for this man. “I had no choice.

_He stared at her through the bars. “Yes, you did.”_

It made her feel cold. “Everyone always says that. _You don’t understand: I had no choice_. Well, guess what? You did. You chose wrong and now _I_ have to clean up the mess.” _Always me_. Why couldn’t anything feel - be - about something she could feel proud to be part of, instead of something that just made her rue getting up in the morning to do it.

It should be her new job title: cleaning up other people’s messes. _Not like anyone ever asks-_

“What are you talking about?” _I take it back._ The haze had lifted from his eyes and now he stared at her with dawning suspicion. “Who are you really?”

Pulling out her tablet as she paced beside his desk, she sighed; not looking at him again. “It’s better that you don’t know.”

“I mean, if you’re telling me there’s something you can do, I’m all ears!” And the gruff man meant that; she could tell. “We’ve run out of options and the city’s down a couple of heroes right now.”

Masks.

“Which is why I’m pulling a cognitive blank at you handing over of settlements and properties that had Diaz strutting out of here like a peacock earlier.” Some serious side eyed was sent his way: she was good at that, the side eye. _I better be; Diggle taught me._ “You don’t have to wear a mask to do the right thing.”

He looked appalled at… well, everything. “ _How_?”

“The cameras here? Very easy to hack. You’re… let’s just say, you might as well not have them.”

And for a few minutes he let her tap away, which wasn’t odd or anything. Letting a woman he’d never physically met in life but _had_ spoken to online, just waltz into his office, lay a few rounds of conscience on him and hack into the city’s not-so-secure security.

Maybe he really was out of options.

“I’m not saying what I did was right. I know it wasn’t.” He admitted in an undertone after a while and she paid attention, sending him a glance to let him know that she was listening. “But I couldn’t let him hurt her anymore.”

Her brow quirked. “Who?”

“Laurel.”

She heard wrong, she had to have heard wrong. “As in Black Siren? Wanted murderer and _actual_ terrorist?” 

Shoulders hunched, half turned away from her; the man looked about ready to be carted off for whipping. “I know it sounds bad but-”

A hysterical, humourless laugh broke free from her. “No, you don’t.” _You really do not know, my man_. But then she quieted - gentled - because she knew, really, why this man was suffering right now. “I’m guessing that she’s a vivid reminder of what you’ve lost?”

Immediately after she spoke he turned fully to face her and the still-present grief, became clear. “I didn’t save her, my daughter. I could have.” Pain rippled through his features. “I didn’t. But I _can_ save this other Laurel Lance.”

“I… didn’t realise she needed saving.”

He looked like she’d just spoken words he couldn’t understand. “She’s under the thumb of the _Dragon_ : she’ll be lucky if she makes it out alive.”

Truly lost now, Felicity lowed her tablet to her side; eyeing the once former detective and expecting some sort of joke. “Are we talking about the same woman?” Because there was no way he could be so blind.

He paused to do the same to her: as if he was wondering how his odd hacker informant couldn’t know about the precious Miss Lance and her horrifying ordeal as Diaz’s prisoner. “Laurel Lance. Light brown hair, tall, beautiful; looks exactly like my daughter?”

“Oh,” placing the tablet on his desk, Felicity wasn’t sure what she felt like doing first, “this is much worse than I thought.” _Do I laugh? Do I cry? Do I smack some sense into him?_ The choices. “Luckily for _you_ , the deeds you’ve given Diaz are _100%_ proof.” _Well done._ She gestured to her forlorn tablet. “We’re screwed, unless someone presents undeniable evidence to the supreme court of law that Ricard Diaz is. A. Bad. Person.” _Good luck_ : he had people in high places. _Somehow_. “And your look-a-like daughter? She’s the reason Judge Simons, your friend? Is currently on _sick_ leave.”

Meaning all hope of taking out Diaz fell on her ability to acquire the launch codes for those missiles and invite Argus for a clean sweep. _No pressure_.

“I don’t get where you’re coming from.” Which sounded an awful lot like _I don’t get **you** , _which was par for the course by now for her.

“Laurel Lance,” she said slowly, “is not in any kind of danger. She _is_ the danger.”

“What are you-”

“She isn’t being coerced.” Confusion - or simple resolve to disbelieve - didn’t look half as good on Quentin Lance as it did on Oliver Queen. “she isn’t being strong-armed or forced in any way. He isn’t abusing her. She went to him of her own accord, wanting to-”

“No.” He dismissed immediately and so easily, it made her worry how deeply his need to save his ‘daughter’ travelled. “No, he manipulated her. That, I _know_.”

“They’ve been working in collusion with each other for the better part of a year.” And it was truth, how his gaze shot to hers. “I have her more _informal_ induction into his group on video.” And if her tone was flat, well; she didn’t have time for this ridiculousness. “She wanted power. She’s always wanted power, security, and she didn’t care if he targeted you or Mr Queen or anyone else; not as long as she got what _she_ needed. But do you know what she likes more?”

He didn’t speak; just watching her as she spoke words part of him knew the truth of already.

“She likes to find powerful, corrupt men to latch onto. It gives her an excuse to play with her victims before she screams in their ears.”

He flinched. “Look, I know she’s done things.” He rasped out; breathing like he’d sprinted down the corridor. “But deep down, she’s my daughter.”

Distaste swept through her. “Show some respect.”

“ _What_?”

“Your daughter died.” He closed his eyes as her words, at the way she said them. Why shout when a whisper will do more? “This other Laurel? She lost her father and, I’m guessing, others. I can imagine how lonely it is for her…”

How lonely it could be, _had_ been, for Felicity whose mother - the only person alive who’d truly gave a damn about her - had been killed years ago by her ex-boyfriend Cooper Sheldon. It had been accidental, but it had been at the hands of a man who couldn’t let go of the past, who couldn’t see the difference between ‘now’ and ‘then’. The gun had gone off at the wrong woman. And so, Felicity had no one in the world who would care if _she_ was killed by Richard Diaz - she’d had her non-existent, unfeeling, recalcitrant father incarcerated years ago - and maybe that was why she’d reached out as a hacker, why Argus had found her. _Her_. She was in the top 5 percentile of hackers on the planet and they’d found her, which meant she’d _let_ them, right?

Maybe she’d wanted to connect.

In return, she’d found chains. And more loneliness.

 _Be careful what you wish for_. “But it’s no excuse for taking pleasure in hurting people- no.” She cut into his head shake; his open mouth sure to spout moral reminders to cover up his doppelganger daughter’s turpitudes. “She takes _pleasure_ in hurting people, face it.” She demanded and why oh _why_ , had no one demanded that before? “The problem now is that she’s bitten off more than she can chew and I’m guessing she reached out to you.” She wagered, guessing correctly by how his mouth closed. “Telling you that she’s in danger,” she surmised; gaging him, “that Diaz will kill her if she tries to leave.”

It wasn’t a lie, per se.

And Black Siren had become skittish. Felicity could pinpoint the moment it happened, when Diaz - in another phase of incompetent reasoning, _he’s got to be on drugs; there’s no other explanation_ \- had taken a few steps too far to teach lessons that were beyond unnecessary.

It wasn’t so much a change in behaviour as much it was a change in how Black Siren moved throughout Diaz’s compound. No longer by his side every waking moment, she seemed to be checking for exits, watching comings and goings. Or she’d follow Felicity around, as if waiting for her to slip up.

But then Quentin answered spoke, and everything fell into its unfortunate place. “Actually she’s…” The deputy mayor cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable and Felicity felt a stab of foreboding. “She’s been relaying information from Diaz’s camp to here. To…” he looked around, as if expected Mr Queen to jump out from behind the curtain or from under the desk, “us.”

Stood before his desk, Felicity could only look at him. Jaw slack.

Quentin Lance cleared his throat, his butt shifting in his chair, his wonky tie looking like a noose around his throat.

 _I need to process this._ “By relaying information, you mean…”

“Spying for us,” he clarified, “yeah.”

She nodded with him. “And by _here_ you mean…”

Looking momentarily helpless, Lance lifted his hands at their surroundings. “It’s difficult to explain.”

It really wasn’t. “To the Arrow.” Which explained the secrecy. “To mayor Queen.”

Black Siren had been reporting to Oliver and- WHAT?

“Well,” again, uncomfortable - his brows arched in surprise - Lance scratched the back of his neck, “Oliver doesn’t- he’s never really trusted her admission of loyalty. Or _her_. He did this for me.”

 _Well, thank god for small mercies_. “I was beginning to believe all men were at the whim of their loins when a knock-out enters the room.”

Quentin squinted at her. “Hey; she’s the spit of my _daughter_.”

 _A moment ago, she_ was _your daughter._ “And a monster.” Felicity responded, knowing full well she was probably beating her head against a stone wall. “Trust me; you don’t want to know the kind of things she enjoys. If what she’s told you is true,” which means Siren had followed her around because she’d recognised a fellow spy and hadn’t been happy that she’d missed her because as deep as Siren was in with Diaz, Felicity was more valuable, and Laurel couldn’t do anything to change that, “she’s still in this for herself.”

Narrowed eyes found hers across the office. “And the fact that she’s risking her life playing spy for us, means nothing?”

“Less than.” _Trust me, I know._

“Says the hacker.” He sneered.

“Touché.” And _smile like you mean it_ , because the next part was going to be hard for him to digest. “Then tell me; why isn’t she helping Oliver Queen escape Diaz’s compound?”

Straightening - a feat given the smell of alcohol still viscerally pungent upon him - Lance’s forehead creased. “What?”

 _He doesn’t kno_ w. “Oliver Queen was abducted two days ago.”

The sentence rang out across the silence between them and she let them sink in for him, whilst wondering why she hadn’t thought of it before this moment; why wasn’t this plastered all over the news? Hadn’t anybody noticed? Didn’t he have people who cared enough to wonder where he’d been for two days? Or was he the kind of person who did this often? Disappearing without a trace for a while?

Eventually, Quentin Lance’s indecisive mouth - lips opening and closing as he tried to navigate his shock - shut as he swallowed, still managing to look and sound irate. “Say that _again_?”

Sighing the sigh of the eternally frustrated, Felicity responded. “He’s being held at Diaz’s compound.”

Shaking his head, “but he- I thought he was in Russia…” _That would explain Anatoly’s involvement_. But he trailed off, looking a few steps past upset towards utter despair.

He needed to get a handle on that. As much as she’d love to make him feel better, in all seriousness, there wasn’t any time for it. “You thought he didn’t contact you because he was brooding in his cave? Or, you know, wherever he spends his time when he’s not here.” In an office that didn’t really suit him. Not the man at Diaz’s compound. Maybe this was one of his other faces; one she hadn’t met yet.

Yet.

There was that word again. It sounded like hope; a hope she didn’t have a hell’s chance of benefiting from. _Like this isn’t going to end with anything other than a bullet for us both_. Maybe not. Maybe they’d both get free and life large to the max!

_Uh huh._

“He doesn’t always call in when he’s taking personal days.” Lance muttered, almost to himself and humour made her stomach flex: personal days. _Is that what the kids call it these days?_ Committing crime, a personal day.

But it told her something she didn’t need to know - couldn’t process - just then; Oliver Queen didn’t have much of a social life, if any life at all.

 _Get in line_. “So,” and this was the tricky part; asking in a way that didn’t indicate she gave more than the standard fuck to give, _which_ _I don’t. At all. Nope_. “there’s no one? No girlfriend, no lover, no friends?”

“His friends are MIA… Or just flat out not talking to him.”

“What, is this kindergarten?”

He ignored that. “There’s a… she’s sort of his… I suppose you could call her his girlfriend, except he’s never called her that himself.” Randomly, he started to _explain_. “They had a bit of a falling out a couple of months ago and he hasn’t mentioned her to me since. I mean, she’s tried contacting him, but I don’t know if-”

“Ok, I don’t need to hear the gruesome details,” of whatever lucky woman held Oliver Queen’s heart _or_ scorn, “what’s her name?”

And why did he look like he’d just swallowed a lemon? “Susan Williams.”

That rang a bell. “You mean… the reporter?” _Wait_. “Didn’t she write that story just after New Years’ a couple of years ago, about Oliver Queen’s illegitimate son? It broke up his relationship with-”

With Quentin’s’ daughter.

“You can say it.” He said, almost ruefully. “They were a bomb just waiting to go off anyway.”

 _Oh really?_ “Well I can’t imagine Susan William’s won any points for bringing his history out into the open like that.” After new year’s, she broke another story; one that connected her to her first slice of sensationalism. “Why would he date her?”

“He didn’t know until her alias penname was revealed, just after Christmas.” Lost in thought, Quentin continued. “Ergo, the fallout.”

“She sounds delightful.” _And a waste of time I don’t have_. “I thought he had a sister… Thea?”

“They aren’t really on speaking terms these days.”

 _Oh God_. Did Oliver Queen ever get to have _anything_ good? “So,” shifting, Felicity couldn’t help but reiterate, “there’s no one?” No one to care he was missing?

_“I don’t have any friends.”_

He really hadn’t lied.

_“Do you know him, John?”_

_“I thought I did.”_

Neither had John, however John might know him.

“Just,” taking a breath, the deputy looked so far past okay that real sympathy seeped into her bones, “me.” He breathed before slumping back into his seat. _Oliver’s_ seat. The seat he wasn’t occupying because, somehow, he’d been captured and no one had noticed.

Beyond that morbid train of thought, it also begged a certain million-dollar question to be answered. “Why didn’t Black Siren tell you that Diaz had him?”

“I don’t-” He stilled; eyes briefly on the table before they glared back up at her. “What are you suggesting?”

“She knew when she came to you with Diaz for those deeds.” No point holding back now. “She’s known for 48 hours that the mayor of Starling was taken by Richard Diaz and didn’t tell you because you’d ask her to do the one thing she knew she _wouldn’t_ do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Get him out of there.” That’s it. That’s all. “One scream, one. That’s all it would take to stop Diaz. Chuck in a few more with some sublime timing and,” she shrugged a shoulder, “there goes his band of not-so-merry men.” 

Out of nowhere, his palm smacked down against the table. “That band of ‘not-so-merry-men’ is a small army of ex-military, ex-mercenary personnel at his disposal: how do you suppose she frees Oliver and gets out of there alive?”

But, being forced into close quarters with men like Diaz, Felicity had long since grown a wall against the odd smack, bang, and wallop. “Then do it with help.” It really was that simple. “I know people.” And it was so dangerous to say this, but she needed to see where this man stood: on the side of what was right, or on the side of his guilty conscience. The side that hadn’t let his daughter go. “ _You_ know people too. You could have had him out, _if_ she’d said something.” Because, though Felicity knew she was just as duplicitous, she’d never flat out lied to save her own skin- and suddenly her own feelings made sense. She was angry, but not why she thought she was. “She kept it a secret,” at Black Siren, “because her own life means more.” Because the woman had even more room to manoeuvre than she and, somehow, she’d managed to do _less_ with it. “It always will. Can you say the same about the woman you buried 21 months ago?” Leaning over the desk the way she had been, it was easy to catch the shame there. In his eyes, warring with the anger and grief brought out with it. In his hands as they rose to cover his face. “ _That_ Laurel Lance? I’m guessing she wasn’t perfect, that she made mistakes, that she did and said things that were wrong. But I can guarantee that she was a damn sight more moral than this person you’re protecting. I can’t speak for Siren, I don’t know her.” _I wish I’d never met her_. “But she’s let a lot of people get hurt and for what? What’s the reason?”

“I don’t see you offering yourself on a platter up to the most dangerous men in the city.” Muttered into his hands, the words were half-hearted at best. A way to get her to shift the attention but it got him more.

It got her to _leave_.

He was half right.

She’d done more than Siren, true. And she’d never laid her actions at the feet off others. But when was she going to start acting instead of reacting? When did it end for her? She was buried in deep with the enemy and she couldn’t really tell him, but she was getting at _him_ for having a heart.

He was also half wrong.

“Just FYI,” she said as she stood at the door, “the back of the Mayor’s phone file on the desk there? It’s been tapped. A certain Miss Williams doesn’t know when to quit.”

She left with the image of him reaching for the phone, scowling and cursing once he found the bug. “Harpy.”

_Miss Williams, hope I never meet you._

She’d destroy her.

 

* * *

 

 

“…Is this Thea? Thea Queen?”

_“Who is this? You have two seconds or I’m hanging up and you’ll never-”_

“It’s about Mr- Oliver.”

           _“Still not a good incentive to talk. This number was supposed to be secure: how did you get it?”_

“I’m an amazing hacker. Don’t hang up! Just trust me; if you dumped your phone or changed numbers, I’d still have your location within the hour. I just want a moment of your time.”

_“Do I have a choice?”_

“Not really.”

_“So, what has my brother got involved in this time? The League of Assassin’s? An ultra-secret group of terrorists? Did someone die, and I have a funeral to attend? Did he find a way to give me back my life? I’m waiting.”_

“Wow. You’re… kind of a bitch.”

_“Hey, you called me. And I don’t care if you can find me. Spit it out or I’m putting the phone down and forgetting you ever existed.”_

“Okay then, I’ll make this short. Richard Diaz is taking over Star City piece by piece, this includes the mayoral office; pretty soon, civilians won’t have anyone to help them.”

_“I’m actually aware of that.”_

“You just don’t care?”

_“I don’t. I’m done with that city. I gave everything to it, to my brother, and got nothing back but coffins.”_

“I can’t imagine how difficult that life must have been for you-”

_“No, you can’t.”_

“- _But_ I didn’t think you were in the vigilante business for the rewards and perks, of which I’m sure there wouldn’t have been any.”

_“Ah, now I get why you called. You want me back in the red hood.”_

“God no. There’s enough bitterness in Star City without YOU adding to it.”

_“…Then what do you want?”_

“Oliver was abducted by the Russians and handed over to Diaz.”

_“Remember how I told you that I’m done?”_

“This part isn’t about your relationship with your brother: Oliver Queen – the Arrow – is the last, best hope for Star City. If Diaz kills him, or worse, if he delivers him into a prison cell, then that’s it. There won’t be a chance for any of us.”

_“You need to understand something: I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. My brother decided to continue on when I begged him not to. It’s like he needs that hood or something.”_

“Maybe he does.”

_“More than me? More than his family, than Laurel before she was killed? Than Tommy?”_

“Well, whoever _they_ are, for someone who knows that he spent 5 years alone and in deep with _darkness_ and things you probably can’t imagine, you’re kind of lacking in the empathy department.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“Now you sound like your brother, just FYI.”

_“What gives you the right to call me and bring all this up? You have no idea-”_

“Oh, is this were I hear your story of woe? I don’t have the luxury for my _own_ story of woe; you think I want to hear yours? This isn’t about me, it isn’t about you. Your bother, despite his flaws, of which I’m sure he has plenty, is the only person who seems to give a crap about the people in this city. About strangers. And hey, if that’s a problem for you, if you’re too jealous of the people here who get continuously screwed over and have only one person who seems to give an actual fuck about them, then fine. I’m wasting my time. I just _hoped_ you’d be able to see the wood for the trees, instead of the green in your eyes.”

_“You’ve got some nerve lady.”_

“My name’s not lady.”

_“Then what is it?”_

“I’m not telling someone who’s clearly given up on even the idea of having hope.”

_“You’re an idealist? Can I give you some advice? I’m guessing you know my brother, you know; biblically?”_

“Um, I only met him yesterday.”

_“…What?”_

“Does it even matter?”

_“Uh… no. Just surprising that you haven’t seen him naked already. Did he ask for your help?”_

“No: I offered.”

_“Did you ask for his?”_

“No.”

_“Then why are you trying to help him?”_

“Because it’s the right thing to do.”

_“…”_

“I’m guessing it’s been a while since that came first in your priorities.”

_“I don’t have to listen to this-”_

“The truth’s hard to hear, huh? I wonder how Oliver copes, knowing he’s chosen everyone else’s happiness over his own? You can keep your advice Thea, though I’m sure it was colourful. I called you to ask if you’d help me get him out so that he could help me bring down Diaz. But you know what, I don’t need someone helping me who’d gladly watch the city burn… with your brother in it.”

Caller disengaged.

Just her luck.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Ok, tiny, tiny problem_ , of which she didn’t have a solution just yet.

But she was pretty sure the solution did _not_ involve walking into the cells with her Walther TPH - bold as brass, not trembling or internally freaking out about it; not at all - pointed at Black Siren.

But that was what she did. Because she had little time. And well, after what she’d heard outside the cells just now…

“Don’t move.” Voice quiet to halt any quivering in her voice - diaphragm tight as two pairs of eyes flew to her - Felicity moved to where Laurel stood. Where Oliver was caged. “The cameras are down; no one is monitoring this. It’s just us.”

Nerves. Of. Steel. _Yeah, right._

Inside she was shaking.

T _his was such a bad idea: if she suddenly remembers who the meta-human is, one scream will end it all_. But it was with a sliver of satisfaction amidst the nerves that Felicity watched the woman who’d tried her very best to be Felicity’s personal pest control - _me being the pest_ \- doubt her _own_ control of the situation. See her take a step back; away from Oliver and the bars. Lose her ever-present smirk as she took in Felicity’s determinedly advancing form - the way Felicity kept her arm up without a hint of a tremble - and the way Felicity wasn’t blinking. Walking closer.

Determined. Done. Decided.

Siren saw it all with that same angry, entitled, _tricky_ frown on her face.

It wasn’t right. Every excuse Quentin Lance had given her was weighed down by the way Siren had behaved. Every moment she’d chosen to try and push Felicity into a nervous wreck of a person. Every time she’d taken clear pleasure in being able to toy with her opponents, kill men and women and blame it on the orders she chose to follow with gusto.

It wasn’t right. This woman had been helping them without truly helping anything at all.

But right now, Felicity needed something. Needed it pronto.

Stopping just far enough away that Laurel couldn’t try to take the gun but close enough so that Felicity wouldn’t miss if she had to fire, Felicity pondered why she couldn’t hate like other people. Surely it would feel good, to hate Black Siren enough to pull the trigger? Instead, she was morally locked in place.

And though she had the gun, she felt vulnerable; _I never did appreciate phallic projectiles_. Especially not in her, normally curious but now, shaky hands. That and, the tiny gun felt more superfluous with her now than it did in a bag. Luckily Siren didn’t seem to see it the same way; she was staring at it like it might start spit fire.

 _Or maybe I’ve truly shocked her this time: that would be nice for a change._ Not being the one thrown for a loop.

Felicity couldn’t even think about looking at Oliver, not with what she knew; with what Black Siren had to know, even though he was right there and-

“What,” it had taken a few seconds longer than normal for Laurel could bite out words, “do you think you’re doing?”

 _Take a breath, calm. Ocean waves. My laptop- I miss my laptop._ “I should be asking you that question.”

What had _Black Siren_ been doing in here, alone, just now?

Talking to Oliver, who’d sat leaning against the wall behind him; legs crossed at his ankles. Indolent, almost.

Until Siren had spoken.

_“I gave you everything you asked for-”_

_“You gave us pieces of a puzzle that you knew the whole of. You played with us.”_

_“What did you think was going to happen? I’m in here with him; do you think this has been easy for me?”_

_“Is this another game? A delusion of your altruistic martyrdom? I remember Black Siren; I gave you a chance in the apartment of a woman whose name you’d forcibly taken, and you stabbed me in the back.”_

_“I did what I needed to do to survive-”_

_“Yes, you joined Richard Diaz lied to us about it while you were passing him intelligence. Then, when you finally told us, you lied again about why.”_

_“What was I supposed to do?”_

_“Anything but that. You had a chance. For Quentin’s sake, I offered you a place on the team.”_

_“Your team isn’t a team.”_

_“Beggars can’t be choosers. You turned me down and then drugged me with Vertigo; the only reason I wasn’t caught on the SCPD’s cameras - and I was itching to tear the place apart, knowing how far Diaz’s influence had spread - was because I received an anonymous call that pulled me away from the city. You have nothing to say to that?”_

_“We’ve all made mistakes…”_

_“You’ve made about a thousand this year alone that you’re probably never going to pay for. How does that feel? Does it feel good to get away with murder?”_

_“You’d know.”_

_“…You’re right; I would.”_

_“Please; work with me. Trust me-”_

_“But do you carry them with you? The deaths? I remember every single person I’ve killed; most of them were poison and I lost little sleep over it. I never killed a man for sport. Never with a smile on my face.”_

_“…”_

_“How is It that you think I can trust you? You aren’t the Laurel Lance who died in my arms. You aren’t Quentin’s daughter.”_

_“You must have loved her dearly.”_

_“I loved her enough to grieve her loss, but I didn’t love her the way she deserved. She died because she ignored a warning I gave her. We didn’t trust each other. You have this strange notion that she and I were besotted soul mates and that, because you look like her, I can be persuaded to believe your every word. We weren’t, and I don’t. You’re talking to a wall.”_

_“What is it you’re hoping to gain here?”_

_“Nothing. I failed; I offered the hand of friendship to Anatoly and, much like you, he threw me to the Almighty Dragon.”_

_“Don’t make fun: you have no idea what he’s capable of.”_

_“Did he burn some people alive? Yeah, I heard that. I once skinned a man. It took time and I had to listen to him scream until he’d died under my knife. Aim a little lower next time you wish to shock me.”_

_“…You skinned a man?”_

She’d listened to them on the cameras, growing ever more incredulous until that one line:

_You skinned a man?_

Husky. Stunned. Just as excited as she was fearful.

So, _because there’s not enough soap on the planet to scrub my ears out_ , Felicity walked in with her gun pointed directly at her target; feeling all kinds of nauseous that were only half linked to nerves. After everything that was spoken, she couldn’t help but send a fleeting to glance at Oliver who-

Got to his feet at speed. Looking at her like he thought she wouldn’t return and…

_Waiting._

For.

Her.

To.

Make.

His.

Day.

You could see it on his face: it wasn’t _just_ about his son.

Siren had been making her _plea_. Her presumably usual contingency should everything be flushed up the Khyber. _If in doubt, get out_. No matter the wreck and ruin she left behind. It wasn’t _her_ fault after all, oh no. It would be Diaz’s. _It would be mine. And Oliver’s_. Even Quentin Lance’s. Never hers.

Oliver was her escape plan. _Oliver_ wasn’t fooled.

Right now, Felicity was Oliver’s _better_ alternative. She had a few points in her favour after all: she was possibly the only obstacle between Diaz and Oliver’s son and she had a gun pointed at a woman who he clearly didn’t want near him, regardless of her namesake. A woman who had all the power but didn’t feel _safe_ with the man who’d given it to her, who’d burned people alive in front of her; expecting her to revel in it with him because she’d sold her sadism a little too well. Lied a little _too_ competently. Wanted power and security enough that she’d sold herself to the most dangerous bad guy in town and now, ironically, felt anything but secure.

_Poor baby._

As it was, Felicity was having trouble not shooting the lanky banshee on principal and plenty more trouble not visibly shaking in frustration.

Instead of doing the right thing, instead of taking action and proving her worth the way she’d been clearly trying to sell it to her look-a-like father, Laurel had participated in all the _bad_ and was now reaping the consequences in a way she was deeply unused to. _What, did she crack an unused emotion? Like, say, guilt?_ Or maybe not, because she was unashamedly entreating the one man who made her feel _other_ things.

The one man who looked, presumably - predictably - like an ex-lover. _Her wheelhouse_.

But, back to Felicity’s problem.

You see, she couldn’t get into Diaz’s database for the codes. Or rather, there wasn’t a database to hack. The internal server was a dud: all pretty packaging with nothing precious at its centre and she could never bring it up with so-called boss because he’d wonder why she was snooping. Which meant he likely had a hide away, or-

His girlfriend knew.

Unlikely? Maybe.

If Black Siren had the codes or even just knew about them… They’d be an A-star bargaining chip, should she need an out. Or a peace offering to Argus or as a goldmine with the Russians. Or even to Diaz himself if she was desperate enough to keep him away from her, which made sleeping with him in the first place utterly senseless. But it also meant that, she hasn’t told the people who needed to know. Again, she’d put herself first.

“It’s very possible that I’m…” _in way over my head?_ But no: she was, by all accounts, a spy. So. Ruminating - heart pounding - Felicity decided on the appropriate word as she peered at Laurel over the barrel of her gun, “taking out the trash.”

She hadn’t meant to say that. _No denying it felt_ really _good though._

And yes, her voice quavered but the anger behind it was evident. She straightened her glasses with her free hand and… well stood there, pointing a gun.

“Are you _insane_?”

Sending Siren a look, _poor choice of words Laurel,_ Felicity. “It’s possible. I mean, I’m actually kind of enjoying this,” _why am I even smiling when I feel like I’m going to cry_ , “alongside feeling slightly sick.”

“You little bitch.” Biting into a lemon suited Black Siren’s facial shape but did nothing for her natural beauty.

“Takes one to know one?” Being in uncertain waters, made this a question instead of a statement because, was she a bitch? _Maybe_.

Did she care just now? No.

Not that there was a soul alive who would be concerned enough about Felicity to wonder.

But there were plenty who got pleasure from her many weaknesses. “I knew it.” Shaking her head, Laurel tensed as if preparing for a fight. “You were faking from day one.”

“You knew _what_?” Felicity very nearly wafted the gun towards Oliver, but training kicked in. _Thank God_. “And I just heard you, miss _informant_. There’s not exactly any room in this… er, _room_ , for anyone to be judging anyone else.”

Hazel eyes flew to and from the gun to Felicity’s face. “Doesn’t change that I’m right.”

Felicity gaped at her. “Your logic is _scarily_ self-serving.”

But Siren was already on tangent. “Says the _precious_ IT guru,” and the venom in her tone could have melted steel, “here to save Richard Diaz from threats. Wearing those tight dresses, your glasses- you think they could hide you from him? That he’d be taken in by all that?”

There was a moment of silence were Felicity had to grope for words. “I… _what_?”

“Don’t pretend that this,” Laurel gestured down to Felicity’s form, “wasn’t a ploy. A good one too: points to you, princess.”

Thrown - _what ploy_ \- in a distracted moment that was characteristic of a worn, sad, anxious, determined Miss Smoak, Felicity glanced down at herself-

_No, you don’t._

-And immediately flicked the safety off her Walther when she felt Laurel move to… well, make a move. _You don’t spend eight months training with John Diggle and Lyla Michaels without gaining eyes in the back your head._ “My dresses aren’t _that_ tight.” She muttered; looking, unthinkingly, to the man behind bars as if this was incredibly important. “ _Are_ they tight?”

Because, being male and all, if they were too tight - or too short - he’d have noticed right?

Siren snorted.

For a moment, he looked so taken aback - she felt just as ridiculous, believe me - and past trying to understand the ludicrous question or the weird curve in the _conversation_ that his face was pretty much, _you’re seriously asking me this question?_ Stood straight, body taut - there _was_ a gun in the room after all - he just stared at her.

 _Tangents,_ gulping, she nodded to herself - _you are completely right good sir_ \- speaking with all the authority of a church mouse. “Not the time. Okay.” She looked back to Siren. “Was there a point to your… point?”

Eyes on the pistol that Laurel was getting warier of by the second; as if it was only just sinking in that bullets were inside the thing; Black Siren took a moment to gather herself and Felicity-

Caught Oliver’s gaze moving down her body, rapidly lifting back up to meet hers at her notice. Expression unchanged, he glanced away.

His throat moved.

 _Oh_. Considering how they’d met, that was very nice. Tight dresses; _uber_ check-

_Stop being distracted by yourself._

_Okay, Diggle_.

But Laurel didn’t care about what she couldn’t see happening; she’d gathered herself. “The way you are makes people want to take care of you.” The insult was _nothing_ to the bitterness in her voice and _whoa, tripped on a landmine here_. “It makes Diaz _look_ at you, something I’m sure you’ve noticed.” Felicity pulled a face; _don’t say that._ Worse was, he did. But it always felt more possessive than seductive. Like, _look at me; I have the smartest toy in Star City and you don’t. Sucks to be you!_ But she didn’t need to feel sick on top of the nerves already making her stomach turn. “Not that it will work in the end.”

 _Let’s play devil’s advocate for a moment_. “It won’t?”

“If it did,” and the oddly sad smile on her face - it seemed this Laurel Lance couldn’t stop smirking at even her own pain - made Felicity wonder how Black Siren could have misconstrued so much, even her own self-worth or the motivations of others, “my life would be far different.”

“You realise how screwed up that sounds?”

“To you, it would. We’ve lived different lives.”

“And yet that’s _my_ master plan?” To worm her way into Diaz’s good graces through tight dresses, batting lashes, blonde locks and a high IQ? _That_ was the best this woman could come up with?

What was wrong with her?

No mention of launch codes or citywide access, nothing remotely about the corruption rapidly spreading throughout the SCPD and further still, just that Felicity was playing the vulnerability card alongside her womanly wiles card to get what she wanted.

Who _thought_ like that?

Felicity _liked_ wearing expensive dresses, thank you very much. After growing up as the daughter of a waitress, buying couture was a pleasure she thought she might never have was like making a statement only she could understand. How the hell did Black Siren get to just _decide_ like that? To make such a presumption and decide she was right, that she’d deduced _right_ about her… without even knowing her.

_Remember when I wondered how the world looked to her? I take it back._

“No one does what you do, working with the people that you work with,” visibly affected by her own words, Laurel continued, “ _looking_ like you do.” And for a woman with a silenced pistol pointed at her face, she was pretty brazen about it. “It’s a tool. I mean, can you even use that gun in your hand? It. Won’t. Work.”

Slighted and advised in one breath.

But, “Clearly it did.” _On you_.

“He’s going to kill you: he doesn’t take well to duplicity.” And it looked like she might even be enjoying that thought, which was understandable given that Felicity had a bullet with her name on it if she so much as tried to breathe on her, but-

“This coming from the woman who’s been caught desperately trying to leave him?” _Are you kidding me?_ “Yeah.” Felicity licked her lips. “I heard that part.”

Hands fisting in her peripheral, Siren’s voice coloured with an odd desperation. “You don’t understand-”

“I no longer care.” Fingers tightening around the gun, Felicity felt truly sad about that. “I really do think that I no longer care.” Her teeth grit… her eyes threatened to tear and now was _so_ not the time, but she hated feeling like she didn’t want to care but she’d also realised in the mayor’s office what her real problem was, and it wasn’t really Laurel at all.

It was her own ineptitude that was hurting her now. _Her_ inaction. Siren was just a symbol of it. Felicity had been genuinely powerless to act, true; but she could have broken the law, gone against Argus, and done something. It would have meant jail - maybe even her own death - but she could have. She hadn’t, because she’d believed, at the time, that Argus was the best route. When her belief waned, why hadn’t she acted? Why had she waited?

She was angry at Laurel Lance for choosing herself but, _isn’t that what I did?_

Looking at her, Felicity knew it was skewed, knew this woman was far worse than she, but at the core of it, _could_ Felicity judge her?

“I’m just making sure you don’t make my already difficult job, more difficult.” She blew out a breath, glancing upwards. “How did we even get on this topic anyway?”

 _Oh. It was my fault_ : she’d been so focused on getting into the room without backtracking, she’d been unclear from the start.

As if something was finally hitting her too, Siren’s eyes narrowed as she perused her. “Who _are_ you? I mean, you’re not here because you want to be.”

_Déjà vu._

“I’m just a hacker.” She looked from Siren to Oliver and back again, feeling supremely small even with the slim gun in her hand. “I cracked the S. O. L. A. S database, the healthcare manufacturer two years ago?” Shrugging her free arm. “It gets you noticed.” By people who want to take advantage of the ‘system’.

For some reason, as if something vile had crawled out from under shoe, Laurel couldn’t have looked more disgusted. “You’re a _vigilante_.”

Brain go splat.

“Wha- uh,” Felicity kind of just stared at her for a moment; as if Laurel spoken in a different language. “I’m. A. _Hacker_?”

“Vigilante,” Siren’s eyes cut swiftly to the man stood sedentary on the opposite side of the bars, “with a mission. _Another_ one.” She shook her head, looking weirdly irritated. “Can’t believe we let you in here.”

“We? As in the royal we?” _Make your mind up_. “Pick a side already,” she flatly stated and - this was surreal at best - Laurel actually looked a little pink at the reminder, “or get off the road altogether.”

“That was you?”

It was so surprising hearing his voice - so low and coarse, as if he hadn’t spoken to a soul in months - she jolted; her insides tightening as she turned to him; her aloft arm genuinely aching. “What?”

“The pharmaceutical meltdown.” He was peering at her through the bars; the shadows on him, once again, like an aura. “That was you?”

No matter how you looked at him, Oliver Queen was one intimidatingly noticeable dude. “Y-yeah?”

For a moment, he just stood there. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I thought…” his lips pressed together. “I didn’t picture you.”

Memories flooded her then: being ridiculed for her dorky sense of style as a preteen, judged for her Goth make-up and attitude as a pre-adult, then for her stereotypical blonde hair, short skirts, and glasses and at first sight repressed secretary appearance.

Then, stereotyped for her intelligence-

“It was aggressive.” It was so quiet, his voice. “Very.” Inquisitive eyes searched her. “You were angry.”

Something made her still. And it wasn’t a question, so she just looked at him; wondering how he could see that.

It had been another symbol of corruption in the city, of unfairness and just… well, badness in general. With no one doing a thing to stop it.

The injustice of a pharmaceutical company screwing over their customers - creating products that, after years of use would forever damage skin unless it was used permanently - was just another sign of the corruption in the city that everyone was ignoring. That she hadn’t been able to anymore.

So, she’d destroyed it, the company. Gone for the mother lode: erupting their internal servers and sending out all their nasty little secrets into the ether - to the media and to the government, which was how she initially caught Argus’s attention - whilst simultaneously formulating a chemical agent that would aid in reversing (reverse engineer) the damage that may have been created by the products.

All this, _before_ she’d taken down a senator and exposed a list of corruptions to the world for its caprice.

Looking back on it, aggressive was… appropriate.

“What’s your handle?”

She cleared her throat. “I’d rather not disclose-”

“Ghost…” and the pause almost killed her, “Fox- _Goddess_?”

Now, how could he _possibly_ know that? Not that it mattered; her gaping fish expression pretty much gave away her answer.

A proverbial dawning light made Oliver step away from the bars, made him take a _deep_ breath. “You were the anonymous caller.”

 _Say What?_ “I-”

“And you sent me detailed blueprints of Diaz’s manufacturing warehouse; it’s location, how to get in and get out- _everything_.” He whispered.

Even Black Siren had gone silent.

“It’s-” _Um, words Felicity; use them_.

“You…” it was strange; now he looked like he couldn’t breathe at all. “You found Adrian Chase. The information you sent to me, the way you tracked him- I was able to stop him before he hurt my sister.”

Kill him. He’d _killed_ Adrian Chase, _because I asked him to._ In the message, she’d asked him to kill the notorious sociopath before he could destroy another life.

And he’d gone right ahead and done it.

 _‘Thank you.’_ He’d messaged back into the digital ether. ‘ _I don’t know who you are but, thank you.’_

He wasn’t supposed ever to know _any_ of this.

At this point, it was a wonder Felicity could breathe too, _oh god he knows_. Someone knew about her. With this he could go back, discover just where she’d played god with her fingers, find out for himself how much of a loner - loser - she truly was, how much she’d meddled-

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Mouth open, visibly affected and all kinds of turned about, there was a wealth of something almost tormented in his expression - and it was such a far cry from the primal aggression in him and the cold in his eyes - as Oliver Queen gazed at her. “All these years, why didn’t you…” Briefly loosing his imploring words, he shook his head emphatically. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

_Uhh…_

It was everything she’d never been given.

Why hadn’t she reached out? Why hadn’t she introduced herself to the man she’d been sending into various storms for the last three years because no one else had been willing to do anything? She had no idea.

Had she been afraid? Maybe she was just a coward. “It’s just… I don’t know.” She threw something out. “Easier.” Being alone.

“No,” he continued whispering, “it’s not.”

His expression hadn’t changed but there was something intolerably sad about how he said that; as if he spoke from experience. Like he knew first hand because he’d done it to himself and could no longer change it; couldn’t take back years of choices and he clearly wished he could.

 _Ok, I kind of need my brain for the next few minutes, so if Mr Queen could stop turning it into goo, I would be much obliged._ This wasn’t going the way she needed it to. “Look,” and Felicity didn’t sound quite so put together anymore, but Oliver Queen was looking at her in a way she’d seldom been looked at, “I just need to know what side you’re on.” And she spoke to Siren, away from blue eyes that were clearly feeling a lot just then, none of it translatable but all of it too much. “I need to know if you have the answers I need.”

Letting out a surprisingly shallow breath herself, Siren said. “I’ll tell you- but only _if_ ,” she added quickly Felicity’s brows shot up to her hairline, “you tell _me_ who _you’re_ working for.”

 _Um, no?_ Her gape was deadpan. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“I think you’re that desperate.” Siren re-joined; not sounding, for once, superior. Just candid. “As it happens, I might be a little… desperate too.” And it looked difficult for her to say. _Good; something should be._

“I don’t trust you enough to lower my gun.” She let that sink in first, watching Laurel wait with bated breath was an altogether new and interesting sight, until- “But my arm hurts, so I kind of have to.”

So, she lowered the gun.

In her peripheral, Oliver shifted; body tightening, moving that slight step closer to the bars as if to jump through them.

Siren looked stunned; eyes sharpening - pupils’ almost pinpricks - and dropping to the gun against Felicity’s side who felt a tad naughty; like she was playing a dangerous game and, _well I sort of am…_

There was a moment lasting the space of 3 seconds where nothing happened, and where Felicity wanted to start giggling nervously-

Then Siren went for the pistol.

Dashing forwards - one arm arching high as the other moved for the pistol - her fist aiming for Felicity’s face as Oliver-

“ _No_!”

Screamed.

It sounded straight from his gut, making her want to look at him but-

 _He shouldn’t worry so much_.

She had the wrist of the hand that had been reaching the gun, twisted in her grasp and bent behind Laurel’s back before the woman could blink- _Who does that?!_ Takes an opening like that, immediately cancelling Felicity out as any kind of a threat, because of the dress. The shoes. The spectacles. The hair.

The stereotype.

Presumptions could _kill_ in her line of work: _she should know better!_ It was as if all her fears about Laurel Lance were being proven correct. Heart pounding, Felicity pushed her forwards, _away_. Half-fisting her fingers, she jammed once, _twice_ into Laurel’s throat the moment she turned. _No. Screams. For. You._

Siren’s eyes bulged; throat croaking. Choking.

“ _Seriously_?” Breathing hard, like she’d sprinted full pelt; Felicity stared in disbelief as Siren dropped to her knees, clutching her throat, scrambling for air and couldn’t help the slight whine in her tone as she continued. “I tell you I’m a hacker and all you see is a Brainiac-bimbo,” and the senseless descriptive was another reason to want to claw into her own brain, “in tight skirts, who puts herself in dangerous situations,” like this one, “without the ability to get herself _out_ of them,” just like half of the idiots who get killed early on in horror stories, “meaning I have to rely on others, _right_? And you thought to _act_ on this bright perspective?!”

On the floor - eyes watering, hands to her throat - Laurel could only manage a wheeze as she hazily looked about her.

 _Trained. By. Secret. Agents- oh why bother?_ Most people only saw what she looked like anyway. “How did you _survive_ this long?” Felicity breathed: about a million questions rolling through her and no one had the answers she needed. “I can’t…” she couldn’t process the absurdity so, she gave up. “You wanted this?” Holding up the Walther, Felicity wiggled it about in her grasp before pointing it at Siren’s face-

Sucking in what sounded like the wheezy breath of a 70-year-old chain smoker, Laurel reached out a shaky hand from where she she’d fallen, curled over, “wait-”

-And pulling the trigger.

With so much adrenaline pumping through her, it was probably one of the strangest, most hysterically hilarious moments of Felicity’s life - _definitely in the top 5_ \- watching the infamous Black Siren’s eyes widen to comic proportions - they were already bulging - as water squirted from the barrel of the gun, hitting her right between her eyes. _I’m a crack shot_.

But the best part?

Oliver Queen’s stunning burst of laughter.

It was so visceral, so shocking, that Felicity twisted around like a gun had _actually_ gone off in the room, to see the Arrow in the throes of a shocking, full-on belly laugh that nearly _choked_ him as it forced itself right out; the sound of it lashing against the walls of his cell, echoing through the room.

As if he hadn’t really laughed in years.

And all she could do was look at him… rubbing a hand over his face, his jaw; it ended in a breathy chuckle that made itself a home on the base of her spine and as a blush on her chest, that made him look so ridiculously handsome, she almost went to touch him to make sure he was real.

He looked relieved.

A hand resting on one hip, the other smoothing over his mouth as if to feel the proof of the easy smile that was still there, Oliver shook his head like, _what am I going to do about you?_

 _Oh_ , a lot; he could do a _lot_.

Years. With one laugh, years fell from his face like leaves from a tree in autumn. Revealing. Beautiful. Like he’d slept and slept well. Then he exhaled, and her eyes fell to his mouth.

“Thank you.” Finally looking at her now, he appeared _so_ exquisitely bewildered by his own gratitude.

“Um,” she had to push her glasses up her nose to regain some stability, “for what?”

His exhale was heavy. “For carrying a water pistol instead of a loaded gun.”

It was an odd answer.

Was he happy she hadn’t killed Black Siren? Or was he just happy that she hadn’t brought a loaded gun in the cells.

She couldn’t tell.

“I-” Hacking up a lung, Black Siren rose to her feet, bringing Felicity’s attention back to her. “I won’t… do that again.” That was almost agreeable, for Siren.

“Well, it’s not for my sake that you need to think before you make your moves so, whatever.” She dropped the water pistol.

She had a real one but she wasn’t going to tell them that.

As if taking a calming breath - _do not (try to) kill the irritating IT genius_ \- Black Siren massaged her throat, still sounding ruined as she peered at her. “Did you do any damage to my voice?”

Sighing, Felicity shook her head. “Your meta ability is _fine_. You’ll just be sore for a while: I’d advise not screaming at anyone for a couple of hours, if you can manage it.” Letting her tiny backpack fall off her arm and next to Oliver’s cell, Felicity continued. “I’m going to be dangerously honest with you both. Dangerous for me, not you. Don’t _worry_.” She added honestly at the flash of panic on Laurel’s face, _geez_. “But I don’t have a lot of choice-”

“Stop.” Oliver interjected, eyes flitting from Siren to Felicity, “What are you doing?”

His face was once more, full of edges and harshness.

The hidden meaning was clear, and Siren - arms folding across her chest, quickly over having her throat punched, save the red mark there and the wheezy quality to her voice - sneered. “ _Thanks_.”

He didn’t care. “I’m being serious.” He murmured, a hand curling around the bars in front of him and he didn’t look away from Felicity. “Neither of us are the best company to confide in-”

 _What is he doing?_ “Why?”

He looked momentarily struck.

“It isn’t like I have a lot of options here. I mean, would you betray me to Diaz?” She asked smoothly, head tilted at him.

The furrow at the bridge of his nose etched deep. “ _No_.”

And she smiled because it was striking, his sudden loyalty to a woman who’d tortured him - he really had trusted too soon and too many times if this was how swiftly he gave over his allegiance - but also because what she had to say was tragic. “Not even for your son?”

She watched that ripple through his expression.

Yes. He’d betray her for his son.

“And that’s okay.” She wasn’t being facetious or lying to make him feel better; of _course_ , he’d betray her for his son. “It’s the same with her. Well, kind of.” She gestured to Laurel who almost made her laugh with the _‘what am I, chopped liver’_ expression on her face. “She’d _absolutely_ betray me to Diaz if she could to save her skin.”

“You’re not wrong,” Siren started, “but-”

“But she needs to know that I have all the proof of her duplicity stored away whilst she has none of mine.” _So shush, you_. Maintaining direct eye contact with Siren’s usual waspish face allowed Felicity to see: Siren really hadn’t thought about the ramifications of Felicity’s set of talents. “You’d think after working for Cayden James, you’d have considered that _first_. And who do you think Diaz would believe: the woman who he knows shifts her allegiance like changes in the weather or the woman who’s been keeping his secrets safe the last 6 months?”

There was no question: without proof, Siren would be the one doubted.

In the silence - in the way Siren’s lips thinned - Felicity continued; aiming for a short truce. “Look, I’m not here expecting loyalty; the three of us don’t know each other-”

“I’d find a way.” Oliver cut in, and he was quiet, but you could still hear it: the truth in it. Or what he _believed_ to be the truth. “If I had to betray you,” Still of the whiskey sin variety, his voice never quivered; it was strong. Clear. And his eyes - unusually vibrant - didn’t waver. He was focused. “I’d find a way to make it right.” He just looked her right in the eye and it was all very virile. “I’d come back for you.”

As if he was trying to tell her to _believe_. Like _he_ wanted to believe it. Like he hadn’t in a long time and he needed someone else to do it for him right now.

And it was… _overwhelming comes to mind._

Looking at him, her mouth opened in a little, _oh_.

“Well,” looking like toxic sewage just spilled out over her shiny spiked heels, Black Siren’s jaw was locked in place, “this oversentimentally isn’t nauseating at all-”

Felicity cleared her throat, _right_. “I’m running out of time.” Because she’d given herself a deadline but also because Diaz would make use of his Intel soon anyway and that couldn’t happen. “We all are.” Siren cared about herself too much to ignore this and her tapered frown as she focused on the urgency in Felicity’s voice said she was all ears. “Diaz has in his possession a set of codes that, when assembled, will give him access to Russian ballistic missiles.”

Rip off the band aid.

The stillness was unnerving.

It was so preposterous, genuine hysterical hilarity eventually broke free from Siren as a shaky laugh. “Is this a joke?”

 _I wish._ “I need to overwrite these codes.” The smile dropped like a slap. “And if not overwrite them, destroy them altogether.” And allow millions to funnel down into wherever wasted money goes, for which she’d be blamed.

 _That_ was the government’s line anyway. She didn’t care. She’d out rightly destroy the codes if she could. But there’d be a power imbalance and it would be because of her.

So, infiltration and modification it shall be.

“Richard Diaz,” and _oh_ , Oliver was not a happy camper, “has codes,” like this was his worst nightmare and it really might have been, “to Russian missiles?”

Lips pressed together, one fast nod was all Felicity could manage: the magnitude of what she’d said felt like a weight upon her chest.

“How do you know this?” Horror made him pale; made his irises stand out amidst the white. And she was glad he was standing far enough away: _rage_ radiated out of every pore. “How many?”

 _Twelve_. “Enough. And… it’s why I’m here.” Mostly.

Mouth slightly open, hands lifting to cup the back of his neck… Oliver got the message. She wasn’t _with_ Diaz. She wasn’t with _any_ of them. She wasn’t here for Oliver _or_ for Siren. She was here to stop Diaz from starting either a) a war or b), holding a city for ransom creating a power vacuum… which could lead to a war.

Putting it that way, her continued preoccupation with Siren’s lack of humanity felt a little superfluous.

“But he hasn’t used them?” Siren suddenly broke in.

Felicity just squinted at her like, _Wha…?_

So did Oliver who - hands clasped together, sliding upwards to the top of his head - could be far more succinct than she, it seemed, and sent Siren a look of pure disdain. “ _Clearly_.”

A tetchy sound tore from Laurel’s throat. “I meant, not even as a threat?” And that was a decent point: they’d be a good move against opposition, unless he was simply waiting for the right time to strike. Or the right _price_. Her hands lifted to them both. “He hasn’t even mentioned them!”

 _To me,_ could have been added quite smoothly at the end of that sentence and Felicity couldn’t have been more disappointed by it. Seriously: the woman had a _point_. A good one. And it answered a question.

“He didn’t say a word? Didn’t talk about his meetings with Anatoly?” And Felicity couldn’t help her earnestness or the slight shake in her voice, “didn’t even refer to how he’d garnered such support in such a short time?”

Again, Siren snorted; her fisting hands belaying her growing anxiety. “You call six months a short time?”

“To create a criminal syndicate that almost owns the city?” _Are you kidding?_ “Uh, _yes_.”

Scowling, “If he _had_ told me,” Siren - and with her voice as rough as it now was, she didn’t sound much like any kind of mythological temptress - started pacing, “I would have left long ago.”

 _Good point_. “At least you’re not lying about that.” Even as she said it, it took everything Felicity had not to pull her real gun out of her small bag and force-feed it to Laurel because, _how could she not know?_ It was desperation, she knew that but, she needed _something_ to go on. “What about…” _oh why didn’t I think it before?_ “Do you know where he might store them?”

Siren frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“There would be a template he’d- never mind.” She stepped closer. “Does he have a laptop or interface elsewhere? As in not here.” In _this_ base.

It took Siren precious seconds to answer. “I’ve never seen him near a computer here… but,” she added after a too long pause, _come on_ , “he has a place where he meets Anatoly sometimes: sort of like a warehouse.” Her eyes flitted to Oliver Queen’s. “Not the one _he_ ransacked.”

Quietly, Oliver shifted; his hands falling back down to his sides. “The one you sent me to.” He exhaled; focusing on Felicity.

The _why_ , right there in his gaze.

 _It’ll have to keep_. Though he was making it difficult to focus. “Okay. Where is it?”

“ _If_ I tell you where it is,” _and here it comes_ ; Laurel was speaking slowly; but it wasn’t out of weakness or anxiety, “will you tell me who you work for?” It was a building _confidence_. A resolve.

 _I’ll bite_. “Why?”

“Because I want to make a deal with them.”

She almost burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, what?” Felicity could tell by the look on her face; she was being serious and yet she still had to ask- “Are you serious?” She sent the man behind the bars a glance. “Is she being serious?”

Mr Queen could offer no words in lieu of the introspective, if increasingly dark look he was examining Siren with.

“I want out of here,” Laurel pressed, “out of this city.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come back to Star City when you had the money and means to get out forever.” Oliver suddenly said; his voice strong and clear. “You shouldn’t have gotten in with Diaz when you knew exactly the kind of man he was, using the name of a dead woman to garner public support, despite throwing it in the face of her father.” Neck muscles taut, “and me,” he stared at Siren who - for once - couldn’t even summon up a glare. “And the people you killed. And the ones who loved them.”

 _Whoa_.

It was like poison was being drawn from a wound and, surprisingly, it was her own. _And maybe his_ , she thought as she watched Oliver’s contempt slowly seep out of his expression, if not his tone.

“Admit it.” He continued. “You wanted Quentin in your life: that’s why you came back.” _Wait, what?_ “You may not have liked it, that he kept comparing you to _her_.” This _smile_ grew on his face and it was anything but kind. “And part of you probably got a kick out of living her life because, why shouldn’t you enjoy what a dead woman can’t?” It was insidious; his words, his voice, the intent that he insinuated was behind Siren’s actions. “You wanted me in it too; don’t try to lie.” He told her when Laurel looked ready to fire back on all cylinders. “The first thing you did when you first saw me, was hug me; even if it was a ruse. When I found out what you were really like, you hugged me again. You held onto me when you returned to Star City in front of the cameras. I’m another taste of the life you lost; it just didn’t occur to you that it came at a cost. Or you didn’t care.”

“Spare me.” Siren hissed at him: but her eyes had wettened. “You have no room to judge me after everything you’ve done in the last five years.”

“No, but I do and if I judged you on everything you’d done in the last eight months alone, you’d be sitting on a death penalty.” Felicity intersected; a little thrown by the sudden depth of the conversation and more than done with it. “Terrorism. Murder. Identity fraud. Larson. Assault. The list goes on, so I’m struggling to find a reason to give you what you want, _but_.” She grit her teeth. _I can’t believe I have to do this_. “I. Am. Running, out. Of. Time.” Taking a deep breath, she cast herself into unknown waters. “I work for Argus.” She backtracked, eyes going to the ceiling for a minute in thought. “Well, sort of. I mean, it’s more like a take-take situation? I work for _them_ , so they don’t throw me in jail…” A quid pro quo without the pro quo.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Laurel groused; a hand went to her forehead, as if a headache was coming on.

“Oh, I wish I was.”

“The S. O. L. A. S. meltdown.” Oliver muttered, piecing it together. “They kept an eye on you after that.”

 _Yup_. “And then caught me after the Senator Gibbon bust.”

A breathy noise escaped. “Of _course_.” Oliver nodded, as if the world suddenly made sense again. “That was you.”

She bit down on her lower lip. _Don’t say it, don’t-_ “Um, John says hi by the way.”

 _Dammit_. It wasn’t the time to be bridging gaps between ex-comrades but, something good had to come of all this.

Except, at the mention of John’s name, Oliver stilled. “He knows you’re here?”

 _Uh_ , what was with his face? “Um, yes?”

Teeth clenching suddenly, Oliver visibly tightened. “And he _let_ you do this?”

It was like a hand was very slowly fisting inside her stomach. “Okay, no. We’re not doing this.”

Angry eyes scoped away and back again. “Doing _what_?”

“The whole, _I’m Tarzan, you Jane_ deal.” He looked so confused and, _why does he have to look so good when he’s confused?_ Like a puppy. A muscly puppy with claws, worthy of all the stroking, _ahem_. “This is my life, my choice; remember?”

“That’s not-” Brow furrowed, he paused; just looking at her. “It isn’t what you think. To use you…” the emphasis on _you_ made her wait, as did his abrupt - disarming - softness. “We’ve been trying to get Diaz, especially after what happened with Cayden James. Dig gave me a speech about choices and _leadership_.” Dig; he called John, _Dig_ ; they’d been close. “About the way I treat the people I lead and yet he,” he waved a hand towards her, “he sends you in like a _present_.”

The grain of truth in his words, made her swallow.

Pressing his lips together; he stared at her for 3 seconds until he muttered one word to himself through gnawed lips. “Hypocrite.”

It was a confusing mix of chauvinism and chivalry that she wasn’t sure what to do with. “It needed to be done.” But John was a good man and it wasn’t his idea to send her in there.

“Did he protest?”

“…No.” _But he trusts me to do this_. “He knows the risks and he thinks I’m capable.” _He trained me_. “Sometimes the unthinkable is necessary.”

For 2 seconds Oliver didn’t say a word.

Then-

“I can’t think of a reason to send you in here. Even if it meant getting the job done.” He admitted. “I’d have you infiltrate behind the scenes and _I’d_ slip inside to give you all the access you’d need. If you agreed to me doing so, that is.” He was quiet. “It would be different if you _wanted_ to be the spy but… Did you _want_ to do it?” Clearly, it didn’t matter to Oliver the why’s and how’s of John Diggle.

“Amanda Waller doesn’t give you options to choose from.”

“No, she gives you ultimatums and threats.” He swiftly responded. “Which is why I’m having trouble understanding Dig’s part in this. And it means I was right: It wasn’t your choice to be here. You’re a hostage, just not for Diaz.”

He’d done it again. He’d seen her. “What’s done is done.”

“You’re right.” He abruptly agreed, nodding to the floor. “So what needs to happen to finish this?”

Blinking - he had his hands on his hips and was licking his lips: it was very distracting - at his assertiveness, she stumbled through her next words. “T-this? I don’t- huh?”

“You need those codes. How do we get them?”

 _We._ She actually looked at Siren like, _is he referring to you now,_ who looked less than thrilled at being dragged into it, which was, once again, a hypocritical landmine.

“So,” Siren started, dragging out the _o_ , “all she needs to do is tell you that she might be in real danger and you’re 200% in?” As if he’d just proven a point of hers, Siren sent a twisted look of smug triumph in Felicity’s direction. “See?”

_“The way you are makes people want to take care of you.”_

Trust her to take the kindness of others and twist it into something painful. “You’re free to get gone.”

“No.” Once more folding her arms, Laurel wore the same self-satisfied smirk she’d surely been born with. “I think I’ll stay. Someone needs to make sure we don’t all die because one of you got noble.”

A genuine shudder rippled through Felicity. “That isn’t exactly what I‘d call reassuring.”

“You said it yourself: you have no choice.”

“So, what do we have?” Oliver eventually asked.

“ _I_ have almost everything I need to put Diaz down a dark hole for the rest of his life.” Going by their expressions; that sounded like a very fine idea indeed. “But he’s allied with the Bratva who are vying for power in Star City and the chance that the codes are with them is _too_ big a chance for Argus. I need to find out for sure.”

Which left her with an idea.

Siren eyed her. “What are you going to do?”

“You just go with the flow when it happens.” She stepped closer to the bars. “And remember that I have everything I need to throw you to the lion’s…”

 

* * *

 

 

“You shouldn’t trust her.”

“I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t trust _me_.”

Felicity smiled at him: a small, gentle smile. “Ditto.”

Slowing shaking his left to right, Oliver breathed. “And yet…”

“And yet.”

And yet, they did. It felt dangerous in the best way.

Which was why, especially since Siren had sauntered out leaving them blessedly alone, she had to tell him. “I need to tell you something… and you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

Eyes searching her own, Oliver braced.

“Adrian Chase knew the location of your son.”

It cracked his armour, whatever he was feeling. “I know.” Throat moving, he sounded like he’d tried to drink shards of broken glass. “He taunted me with it, but I killed him before I could find out what he knew.”

“Well,” licking her lips, pressing as close to the bars as she would allow herself, Felicity continued, “he passed that information onto Cayden James. Or rather Cayden James, found it. And Cayden James… sent a packaged email to Richard Diaz in the weeks before Diaz killed him. The email was erased and it's contents transferred. ”

Fighting against internal restraints, real fear screamed at her from behind the bars. “He knows.” Oliver whispered.

And she nodded, helplessly; wanting so much to give him the comfort he’d clearly been needing for too long.

"Did he..." Unstable emotions reared their ugly heads in him. “Can _you_ find him? My son, before Diaz?”

On _find_ , his voice wobbled. On _son_ , it flat out broke.

And he didn’t give a fuck.

“You don’t know where he is, yourself?” _What?_

He looked like the burning man: constantly tortured even when he was alone, and he’d rather have razor wire yanked out from a limb than grind out, “ _no_.” Adam’s apple bobbing, throat moving; his voice was a rumble of long-felt desperation and an old fear she didn’t understand. “I haven’t seen him since… since I sent him away.”

And admitting that clearly hurt him, bringing back every second of whatever was putting that haunted look back in his eyes. Whatever was… making him tremble. He looked like he was preparing for a blow.

“When did you do that?” _Why would you?_ Shaking her head, frowning in concern, she did what she’d promised she wouldn’t. She pressed into the bars with her body, hands wrapping around them as she looked up into his face…

The red in the white of his eyes - the kind of strain that had nothing to do with being tied to a chair and electrocuted - highlighted the dark circles beneath; when was the last time Oliver Queen had a good night’s sleep?

“Two years,” he forced out, “nine months and seventeen days ago.”

“P-pardon?”

“That’s when I sent him away.” Forehead against the bars, Oliver rasped. “I tried to look for him last year, after Adrian’s threats.” His head shook a negative. “I couldn’t.”

He hadn’t slept well since then.

“So, you,” she started, “want me to do this,” to start a chain reaction in the building _not_ for Russian codes, “in order to access what will hopefully be in Diaz’s safehouse, to find your son?”

It was written all over his face: there was every chance she’d shoot him down. Every chance she’d reveal herself the same kind of snake Siren was and tell him this was all some twisted ploy to get him to break, especially after getting him to trusting her the weird way they now did. He was taking the chance. He was showing his back.

He was almost sure she’d stick a knife in it.

“Okay.” She nodded so swiftly, her glasses almost dropped from her nose. “I’ll do it.”

On a knife’s edge, motionless: he watched her step away, walking towards the door

Not seeing a monster.

Just a man.

“You’ll come back.” He whispered to her as she did, but she heard it all the same. “Promise me.”

She paused at the door, not looking back. “You’re not allowed to die down here. Promise me.”

He didn’t.

She didn’t.

But they were down there together. Looking at it like that, it didn’t feel quite so bad as before.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> BTW, chapters of my WIPS etc are coming along nicely but some are a royal pain my butt. My muse is not lost; it's more that I've discovered better ways to say a thing but I can't quite articulate the thing until the thing makes itself known... weeks if not months later.


End file.
